Homecoming
by Brighid45
Summary: The ninth story in the continuing Treatment series. House has regained his license-is he ready to begin working as a diagnostician once more? AU to S6/S7 canon storyline. Angst,drama, humor,OC romance. Epilogue now posted. Please R&R, thanks!
1. Chapter 1

**_(A/N: a new story in the continuing Treatment series, and a new year to boot! Lots of story ahead, I hope you're enjoying it to date. A very Happy New Year to all my readers!_**

**_Btw, while you're here reading fic, go check out 'Beware Greeks' by MissBates, and 'A Christmas Dream' by Gertrude2034. Both are excellent reads. _**

**_Many thanks for sticking with this long, long story, and thanks also for the wonderful reviews. They are always much appreciated. -B)  
_**

_December 31__st_

_9:30 a.m._

The hearing room was chilly, even with the weak winter sunlight streaming in through the window. Sarah shivered and was glad of her new jacket, thick and warm. Greg had chosen well for her.

"So, Doctor Goldman, you think this is the best course of action, having the boy foster out to Bob Gibbs?" The judge leaned back in her chair, toying with her pen.

Sarah nodded. "Yes, Your Honor. I believe Jason Bramble has potential. He understands what he did was wrong, and showed concern for my welfare after the accident. He trusted me enough to eat a meal I provided, and he went willingly with the officer when directed."

"And what do you say to this, Mister Gibbs?" The judge gave Bob a slight smile. "Your own son's grown and married with children of his own now. Are you sure you want to take on raising another boy who might bring some heavy baggage along with him?"

"I'd like t'give it a try, Your Honor," Bob said. "Sounds like the boy needs a home where he ain't bein' beat up or starved, at least."

The judge sent Sarah an inquiring glance. "I saw the bruises on his arm, and he inhaled most of a large pizza," Sarah said quietly. "Even given the fact that he's twelve, energetic and basically an empty stomach on legs, it's my opinion he's being abused and neglected. He was trying to steal groceries, not my purse or my stereo."

The judge sighed. "I appreciate you trying to put a good spin on things, but the fact is that Jason is a repeat offender and not just for stealing. He's been suspended from school for fighting with students, and vandalism as well as destruction of property."

"I've read through his history," Sarah said. "Mister Gibbs has too. We're aware of Jason's prior actions. What I'd like to know is why he was committing them. I think there's a pretty good reason why he was acting out."

"I see." The judge looked down at the report. "Doctor Goldman, I take it you're willing to provide counseling."

"Yes ma'am," Sarah said. "I live just across the field from Mister Gibbs. Jason would be set up for several sessions a week as well as his mandated group therapy at the youth center, and he'll be welcome in our home at any time, my husband has agreed it's all right."

"Very well. I want frequent updates on how he's doing. If he gives either one of you any serious grief or anything untoward happens you're to tell my office immediately, no exceptions." The judge sat up, took pen in hand and signed the paperwork. "In three months we'll review the arrangement if it doesn't blow up before then." She smiled and handed Bob and Sarah their copies. "I believe you can take your young man home now."

Jason was waiting for them in the hallway sitting in a hard plastic chair next to an officer, his thin shoulders hunched inside Sarah's gift to him, her barn coat. Sarah came forward and crouched in front of him.

"Hey," she said quietly. "Ready to go with us?"

Jason lifted his face. His dark eyes held wary hope and fear tangled together. He said nothing however, only gave a hesitant nod. Sarah got to her feet and glanced at the officer. "Thanks for your help," she said. The man shrugged.

"Just makin' sure he don't trash the place," he said, and stood, then ambled off. Sarah glanced at Jason. He wore an impassive expression, but she could see the shame and guilty defiance there under the surface. She remembered that feeling, the sense that no one ever cared to see past the label the adults had slapped on her because she'd dared to stand up for herself somehow.

"Bob's waiting for us in the truck," she said. "We'll go to his place and you can hang out for a while, get used to everything, then you and Bob can come over for dinner." She paused. "Is it all right if I touch you?" she asked softly. "It's okay to say no." Jason's gaze skittered to hers, then away. He shook his head. "Okay, that's fine. Let's go." She fell into step beside him as they headed for the door. "Ever ridden a horse?"

Jason gave her a startled look. "N-no."

"If you want to learn, I'll teach you." Sarah offered him a warm smile. "But first we'll get you settled in and fed."

_2 p.m. _

Doctor Wirth poured a cup of coffee and handed it over to Greg. She gave Sarah a humorous look. "I've got hot water if you want tea, heathen non-worshipper of the bean."

"I'm fine, thanks. Just here for moral support." Sarah snitched a butter cookie from the plate on the corner of the desk. Greg glared at them both.

"Do you think we could we move past the social BS and get to the point?" he snapped. His hand shook just a little as he gripped the handle of the mug. Wirth nodded.

"Okay, I understand." She sat at her desk and pulled up a batch of papers from a stack on her right. "I have the official report from the examiners. The suspension's rescinded and you're cleared for action, no more supervision or required hours. Your medical license is good to go for the state of New York." She broke into a broad smile. "Congratulations, Doctor House."

"Congratulations," Sarah said past the lump in her throat. She refrained from her natural inclination to give Greg a hug, knowing he would not thank her for what he would see as an emotional outburst in front of his employer.

Greg ducked his head and glanced at Sarah, then at Wirth. "Thanks. Don't think you know what you've unleashed, but that's not my problem."

"Oh, I'm fully aware of exactly what this means," Wirth said dryly. Her eyes gleamed with humor. "I presume your reign of terror over the nurses will escalate and I'll have to print off another stack of incident report forms?"

"I have only just begun to fight," Greg said as Sarah snorted.

"I'm sure your fellow employees will be thrilled to hear it. So, what are your plans?" Wirth sipped her coffee. "I know you won't stay here much longer. Going back to New Jersey? It wouldn't take too much to get your license reinstated there as well."

"Nope." Greg looked away. "This is my lair now."

"Glad to hear it." Wirth said cheerfully. "Whatever you decide, you're welcome to stay as long as you can stand it, and you'll always have privileges here."

"Thanks." Greg put the cup on the desk and stood. "Back to work. It's a tough job, holding down a chair in ER."

"You could always finish up some supply orders for me," Wirth said, chuckling as Greg retreated to the door in haste. Sarah got to her feet and took the papers the older woman handed her.

"Thanks for everything," she said.

"My pleasure. I'll miss him when he leaves, he's livened this place up considerably. Even some of the nurses enjoy his pranks, though they'd never admit it." Wirth shook Sarah's hand, then high-fived her, grinning. "Nice work, Doctor."

"Back atcha, Doctor."

Once in the hallway she found Greg waiting for her. They walked together toward the ER bay. "Done congratulating each other on helping out the wack job?" he wanted to know.

"Oh, hush. We're allowed a moment to gloat."

"Save me from designing menopausal females," Greg said, and pretended to flinch when Sarah gave him the fish eye. "Oops! Silly me. I meant beautiful, dignified and mature women."

"Damn straight," Sarah said, and stopped with Greg at the first bay. "Okay, I'll see you at supper. Bob and Jason will join us."

"Better count the silverware before he gets there," Greg said, and turned to face her. He put his arms down at his sides.

"What's the matter?" Sarah asked, puzzled.

"I know you're dying to hug me, so just do it and get it over with." Greg squinched his face into a look of total martyrdom and closed his eyes. Sarah smiled.

"Well, that's very generous of y'all," she said, and walked up to him slowly. He opened one eye to watch her as she stopped a foot or so away. "You're sure about this?"

"Yes."

"Positive?"

He shifted a little. "Absolutely."

"You really mean it?"

"Dammit, just do it already!" He opened both eyes to glare at her.

"Okay," she laughed, and gave him a hug, holding him gently. Slowly his arms came up, returned the embrace briefly, then let go.

"Brat," he muttered, but he didn't really mean it. Sarah gave him a little squeeze and stepped back.

"So proud of you," she said softly.

"Stop it," he grumbled, but he wore a slight, crooked smile that tore her heart to shreds. On impulse she leaned in and kissed his cheek.

"Well done, Doctor," she said. "See you for dinner in a bit."

_6 p.m._

Jason glanced at Bob as the older man knocked at the front door of Doctor Goldman's home. It was a nice place, different from the Gibbs farmhouse; older, but someone had rebuilt it here and there.

"Hey, come on in!" Doctor Goldman stood in the doorway, a wide smile on her face. The bruises and scrapes were still in evidence; Jason flinched when he saw them, remembering how they'd happened. He'd been so sure that car would run her over and all he could do was lie there, frozen with terror, watching as death nearly took her.

"Supper's almost ready," she was saying now. "Why don't you get warmed up a little by the fire and then come to the table? No pizza tonight," and she actually gave him a conspiratorial smile, her beautiful eyes twinkling, "but I promise it won't be yucky stuff."

"Come on, son," Bob said, and they went into the living room. Jason paused in astonishment. This had to be the _coolest_ house he'd ever seen. It was like trees had grown up inside of it or something; there was polished and rough wood everywhere. There was a big fire blazing away in the fireplace too, and a tv screen on the wall, and comfortable chairs and a couch with a colorful carpet beneath them, and a huge Christmas tree shining with lights and ornaments. He stared at it all, unable to take it in. He knew some people lived this way, he'd seen the ads on tv and in magazines, but never in person. It overwhelmed him, reminded him he didn't belong here. His own home was a far cry from this one—small, dirty, cold. If they really knew where he came from-

"Hey Bob, Jason." Someone stood up from one of the easy chairs, a tall, lean man with dark hair and eyes. He held game controls in his hand. "Care to join me in a round of Pole Position?"

"You go on," Bob said. "I'll see if I can help out in th'kitchen." He ambled off, leaving Jason standing alone. The tall man gave him a slight smile, and his eyes smiled too.

"Come on," he said. "We've got time for a couple of rounds yet. Sarah will let us know when everything's on the table." He patted the back of a big chair. "Take a load off."

By the time they were called to supper Jason was hooked. He'd rarely played video games, only when he could scrounge a few quarters to use at the small arcade in the grocery store. Gene—"my full name's Eugene Michael, but no one ever calls me that unless I'm in trouble"—had been patient with him, explaining how things worked. He didn't seem to mind that Jason had never played the game before and didn't know how to use the controls. In fact he acted like he enjoyed showing Jason how to play. It was strange. No adult he'd ever known would have taken the time—maybe a teacher, but no one else.

Supper was another revelation. He'd never seen so much food piled up in one place in his life. Barbecued beef short ribs and chicken wings, burgers, fried potatoes, baked beans, cole slaw, applesauce, salad, cornbread . . . He sat next to Sarah with Bob on the other side, filling his plate from each dish and platter as it was passed to him, and fell to. A week's worth of institutional slop made everything taste that much better. He plowed through one plateful, stacked up another helping, and managed most of that before he slowed down.

"Leave a little room for dessert," Sarah said, smiling. "I hope you like pie."

When the table was cleared Bob said "Why don't ya bring in some firewood for Doctor Goldman? It'll settle your stomach."

So Jason put on his coat, took the thick work gloves hanging from the hook by the door, and went out to the cord of wood piled by the back step. He was removing the tarp when someone limped into his field of vision—the older man who'd sat across from him at dinner, watching him with piercing blue eyes. Jason had seen him before, in the ER. He'd been angry then, yelling at Doctor Goldman as if the accident had been her fault. Jason wasn't sure he liked this guy. He was too much of an unknown quantity, too hard to read.

"You almost killed her," he said. Jason tensed but the man just stood there, looking at him.

"Yeah, I did," Jason said finally.

"Never played that video game before, have you?"

"No." He looked at his feet.

"What subjects do you like in school?"

"I don't like school." It was an automatic denial.

"Any of it?" The man's voice was harsh. "There isn't one thing—"

"Math," Jason said. "And science. I like science." He'd never admitted that to anyone. Liking something and talking about it meant it would be taken away, sooner or later. Liking geeky stuff like math and biology and physics was even worse. The man nodded.

"Good," he said, and went back into the house. Jason stared after him, puzzled. After a moment he took a couple of logs from the pile and carried them into the mudroom, wondering what that had been about. He puzzled over it while he brought in a dozen logs, stacking them with care.

A short while later they did indeed have dessert. Apple and blueberry and chocolate cream pie, cheesecake and a big box of chocolates that looked like the kind they sold at the bakery sometimes; he had a piece of everything, delighting in the sweetness. As he was finishing off the last bite of cheesecake Doctor Goldman brought him something. It was a box wrapped in bright paper with a bow on top, and his name written on a tag. He stared at it.

"Go ahead and open it," she said quietly, and sat down next to him. "It's a little late for Christmas, but better late than never."

He hesitated; then he carefully tore the paper at one corner. The title 'iPod' popped out at him. His eyes widened in disbelief.

"No _way_," he whispered, and looked at Goldman in amazement. She nodded.

"Go ahead."

It was indeed an iPod. He opened the box and examined the contents, his hands shaking. As he did so Gene came up behind Doctor Goldman and extended his hand. In it was an envelope. Jason took it, his heart pounding. Inside was a note telling him he had unlimited access to iTunes.

"You'll have to download here at the house for now under supervision," Gene said, "but you're welcome to do so." He smiled. "You can help us research some new stuff for the band."

"Band?" Jason blinked. "You're in a band?"

"Strictly amateur, but we need some new material. So that's your side job while you're loading up with music, finding good stuff for us to work on," Gene said.

"_Cool,_" Jason breathed, beside himself with excitement. "Uh—th-thank you," he added, remembering his manners. Gene grinned.

"You are more than welcome."

"You're welcome. I know you didn't have much of a Christmas," Doctor Goldman said. "But things will be a little different next year, I think." She smiled at him. "I'm glad we met, Jason."

"You got hurt because of me," he said, confused. "Why would that make you glad?"

"Life's funny that way. Sometimes painful or bad things happen, but now and then something good comes out of it. For me, that was meeting you." She tapped the iPod. "Let's go load some songs into this thing before y'all have to go home, okay?"

_10:40 p.m._

It's well into the big bash for New Year's Eve at the fire hall, and the Flatliners have just ended their first set. Gene takes the mike as the room is filled with cheers and applause. There are quite a few more people here now than there were on Christmas; the place is packed. Apparently word has spread that there's a live band playing gigs in the village, and everyone wants to come check them out and have some fun.

"Thanks," Gene says. "We're taking a twenty-minute break, but before we do there's a little business to conduct first." Greg's eyes widen when Gene points at him.

"_HAPPY BIRTHDAY!"_

The shout that goes up from the crowd on the dance floor is deafening. Greg gives Gene an accusatory glower. Gene offers an innocent smile. Singh shrugs, and Jay looks surprised. That leaves . . .

Sarah and Roz. They wave at him from the crowd, both laughing. He glares back, defying them to go further with this, but it's too late; there's already a big cake headed his way with his name and an enormous '39 AND HOLDING' written on the top in bold blue icing. There's nothing he can do except come down from the stage while they all sing 'Happy Birthday'. He's tempted to plant his face in the middle of the stupid damn thing except he'd never get the dye out of his skin. It is utterly humiliating and he hates every moment, until Roz comes up next to him and whispers in his ear as she gives him a cake knife.

"I left your present at home . . . in the bedroom."

He almost drops the knife. "Hot _damn_."

"You bet," she says, "now cut the first piece and I'll take over." She kisses his cheek to a round of cheers and hoots, then kisses him again when he completes the task and hands the knife back to her.

"Grab a seat at our table," she says. "I'll bring you a corner piece."

"I'm sure you will," he leers, and she chuckles as he heads for the table where Sarah is sitting. She looks festive in a dark green glittery sweater and black jeans, her curls loose and rioting over her shoulders. She is wearing Roz's gift to her, the seashell necklace, and a pair of shell earrings too—one of Gene's presents. Her scrapes and bruises are slowly fading; she looks better, more rested.

"Hey birthday boy," she says, smiling. He sits down and gives her a stony stare.

"My goodness me, how thoughtful of you. I _hate_ this stuff," he growls.

"Too bad. It's an excuse for everyone to indulge themselves in a little teasing and have some cake as well. Be thankful I didn't have Rick put all the candles on, it would constitute a fire hazard."

"Smartass," he grumbles at her. "Wait till your birthday."

Roz comes over with the promised corner piece, covered with loads of fancy buttercream scrollwork, and a second slice for Sarah. She hands them over with two forks. "Chocolate ganache for the filling," she said, "my request," and gives Greg a saucy smile before going back to the table to hand out more cake and exchange small talk and holiday greetings with the partygoers.

"Oh my god," Sarah says after the first bite. "I'll have to walk for a week to get this off my hips." She licks the fork as Gene comes over to sit next to her.

"Promise to do that to me later," he says. Greg rolls his eyes.

"Gross. Married people are so disgusting," he complains. "I bet you do the dip on more than the dance floor too."

"Says the man who actually hung a sock on his door latch last night," Sarah laughs. "I didn't know I was living in a dorm."

"It was a dirty sock," Greg points out, and stuffs a forkful of cake and icing into his mouth, chewing noisily.

"We tried so hard to raise him right," Sarah says on a long-suffering sigh. "I can't believe he's gotten his license back and is starting his own practice. Where did we go wrong?"

"Must be soap poisoning," Gene says, and ducks when Greg launches a bit of buttercream at him.

"Do NOT quote that stupid movie!" he says, lips twitching as Sarah laughs.

"Do you have an existing building in mind?" Gene asks, serious now. Greg shakes his head.

"I haven't gotten that far." There's a sizable amount of bread in his account from Cuddy's generous bonus and what he's saved from his earnings at the medical center, but it won't cover things like equipment and any renovation needs, not to mention staff salaries.

"You could ask Roz to look around for you," Sarah says. "She goes all over the county, I'm sure she could find something that might work out."

It's a good idea. Greg nods in agreement and looks up as the subject of their conversation comes to sit beside him. She's wearing a deep crimson silky sweater and a short black velvet skirt over lacy black tights; her newly bobbed hair is sleek and glossy (it took her hours to get it that way, he knows), and the diamond stud earrings he bought her glitter and wink. She looks good enough to eat. With care she leans in, takes the fork and offers him a bite of cake. He accepts it, watching her. When she gives him a kiss she makes a yummy noise against his lips.

"Mmmm . . . sweet."

"You two are nauseating," Gene says with a grin. "I'd tell you to get a room but we have to be onstage in ten minutes."

"Plenty of time," Greg says, smirking. Sarah shakes her head.

"TMI, son."

"Too late. That's what you get when you plan birthday parties for people who don't want them," Greg says. "Especially parties with no presents."

"You've got the best one of all standing right there," Sarah says, "but I think you'll find a few things waiting for you when you come home tomorrow." She puts her hand on his arm, making good use of his first Christmas present to her—the permission to touch without asking. "I'm glad you're spending your birthday with us," she says, smiling.

Greg thinks back to this time last year, when his duffel still held a pair of socks with a bottle of Vicodin tucked inside. He shivers just a little. Sarah gives him a gentle squeeze.

"You're here now," she says softly. "It's a good place to be. You've done well." She rubs his arm gently, then lets go. "Better get up onstage. Take some water with you, all that sugar will make you thirsty."

"Yeah, okay _Mom_," he snarks, but he snags some bottled water on the way back up front.

They see the New Year in with 'Auld Lang Syne' of course, and a few more songs after that before everyone heads off into the frozen tundra and the band packs up to go home.

"Best New Year's ever," Roz says as they are on their way to her place.

"We are going to make it better, aren't we?" He speaks in a low, suggestive tone.

"Well I sure hope so, otherwise all the work I put into looking good tonight will be totally wasted," Roz says, and almost drives off the road when he opens her coat and slides his hand under her sweater to cop a feel.

Once inside the house they leave a trail of clothes from the front door to the bedroom, falling atop the bed and nearly squishing Hellboy. Greg laughs, watching the cat stalk off in indignation, until Roz captures Greg's face in her hands and gives him a kiss that sends fireworks shooting through his head and other parts of him too.

Soon enough he is settled among the pillows in a half-reclining position, his hands sliding up and down her hips as she rides him, moving in a deep, steady rhythm, her slender body pressed to his. When he feels the first tremors of her gathering climax under his palms he breaks off their kiss to watch her eyes change color from hazel to a deep moss green, her soft moan better than any music he's ever played.

"A whole year ahead of us," she says when they're spent and lying together, her cheek to the join of his neck and shoulder. He trails his fingers over her smooth skin.

"Don't jinx it," he says.

"Hah. So you are superstitious," she says, and he hears the smile in her voice.

"Someone said something like that to me last year about this time, and then you showed up," he teases, and chuckles when she smacks his chest with her palm.

"Smartass."

"I'm going to open my own practice," he says after a little while. "Sarah suggested you could scout a location for me."

"Sure." Roz rubs him gently. "I'd be happy to look around and see what's available. For a fee, of course."

"Oh yeah? You wanna make me pay?"

"And pay, and pay, and p-pay . . ." She's giggling as she punctuates each word with a kiss. Greg pulls her down and gives her one back for all she's given him, and considers it cheap at half the price. A new year, a new beginning; maybe this time he might just be ready.

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, please leave a review on your way out. It would really make my day._**


	2. Chapter 2

_Twelfth Night_

_10:30 a.m._

Sarah watched as Gene and Greg eased the Christmas tree off Minnie Lou's flatbed. Inside the thick sleeves of her coat her gloved hands were clutched together tight. _They won't burn it, _she chanted silently, _they won't burn it._

Slowly the men moved the tree to the windbreak and shifted it into place, laying it on its side against the thick brush at the property line. When they were done Sarah came forward, struggling through the crusted drifts. She came to stand beside the tree and looked at it. Her insides were shaking, but she made herself stay there.

"You don't expect it to talk, do you?" Greg said. He handed her down a bucket filled with the suet seed cakes she'd made the day before. "Because that would just be a little crazy. Well, a lot crazy. Sort of like what we're doing right now."

"You think it's insane to pay respect to someone who helps you?" Sarah started to hang cakes on the branches.

"Trees are people too. Wow, who knew?" Greg rolled his eyes. "Hippie."

"Thank you," Sarah said, and laughed when he snorted. "If you could just put the salt and mineral licks down, I'll walk back to the house."

"I think that's our cue to leave," Gene said, and hopped up in the flatbed to do as Sarah requested. "You've got your phone with you?" He gave her the millet-seed bucket, his dark eyes narrowed in concern.

"Yes." Sarah smiled up at him. "I'll be all right. See you in a little while."

"You're warm enough? How's your hip?" Greg asked, his voice harsh. Sarah spared him a glance but he wouldn't look at her, a sure sign he really was worried.

"I'm fine. Go on now, I'll see you shortly."

When the men had gone and the truck was out of sight she knelt down beside the tree. It was a rare clear day, the sky a brilliant blue dome overhead, and the cold air held the sharp clean reek of pine resin. Sarah took a deep breath. She looked at the sky overhead, then down at the tree. She took off her glove and put her hand on the gleaming needles, stroking them gently. After a moment she gathered her breath and began to sing the first song she had ever been taught.

The tears came then, as she knew they would. She did not wipe them away as the old song fell from her lips. It sounded just as her grandmother had sung it so many years ago, shaping the words of the old tongue learned from _her_ own grandmother; it was the one true gift ever given by anyone in her family, shining in the darkness of her memories. She offered it now as a way to show honor and respect. When the song was over she said softly, "_Go raibh maith agat, crann álainn._" With that she got to her feet, brushed the snow from her knees and boots, picked up the empty buckets, and began the walk home.

About halfway down the lane she slowed and then stopped to rest. She set the buckets atop the snow and looked around her, rubbing her sore hip in an absent manner. In the windswept field to her right, a few crows picked over fallen corn cobs and called to each other; sunlight gleamed on the bright drifts, glittering here and there; a jet flew high in the stratosphere overhead, barely a whisper of sound. It was a bitter morning, frozen tight in the hard grip of winter with the sun hanging low in the sky, but even so she could sense the faint heartbeat of growing things under the shield of ice, lying in wait for warmth and longer days. Imbolc would soon arrive and the greening of the world would come afterward, as it always did. Sarah picked up her buckets and swung them, pleased at the rhythmic noise they made. She started forward, taking her time, listening to the swish of her jacket, the soft rise and fall of her breathing, all making a fine counterpoint to the creak of the handles. After a moment she began to hum, then sing. The simple melody sounded fair and bright in the crisp air.

_I'm as troubled a young man my friends as you ever did see,_

_For I married a damsel her age, it was scarce twenty-three_

_I'm sorry to tell you I married this false-minded one_

_For she's left me alone and gone off with another young man . . ._

_11:35 a.m._

Greg hears her coming up the lane before he sees her. He won't admit he's been hanging around in the kitchen, waiting for her to turn up; it's getting late and he has to head off to work, but he wants to make sure she isn't going to end up a popsicle in a snowdrift somewhere. No fear of that, apparently; she sounds as if she's actually enjoying herself.

Now he can tell what she's doing by the sounds drifting to him in the quiet house as she comes inside: she stamps her boots on the mat when she comes into the mudroom, puts the buckets on the old table and then takes off her coat and gloves and hat to hang them up, still singing under her breath. When she enters the kitchen he glances at her while he spreads peanut butter over a slice of homemade bread. Sarah goes to the stove to put on the teakettle and gives him a mild look in return.

"Mission accomplished, I take it," he says, and slaps another piece of bread atop the first one.

"Yes," she says. "Why don't you ask Roz over for dinner tonight? We're watching Trevor Nunn's adaptation of _Twelfth Night_ with a wassail bowl and some homemade mince pies in attendance."

"Great googly-moogly," he says, stuffing the sandwich in his backpack, "don't you people have anything better to do than celebrate every damn holiday that comes along? I could tell you it's Kilted Yak Day and you'd believe me."

Sarah snags the backpack from the counter, fishes out the sandwich and finds a bag to put it in. "You'll get peanut butter and crumbs all over your journals, and then you'll bitch when the pages stick together," she says. "Why shouldn't we celebrate? It's almost a whole month to Imbolc, and winter in between."

He catches that little lilt of Ireland she takes on without knowing it when she's been indulging in songs from the auld sod. "Singing to a tree . . . it's a new low, even for you."

She raises an eyebrow at him when she puts the sandwich back in along with an apple, then goes to the cookie jar and takes out a handful of oatmeal-raisin cookies. "I don't think the tree minded, and anyway it made me feel better."

That's true enough; she's lost much of that load of tension she's been carrying around for days. "Three hundred and fifty three days to the next Christmas ordeal," he says, just to see what she'll do. Sarah nods as she puts the cookies in a bag.

"Time enough to get used to the idea all over again," she says. "In the meanwhile you've got ten minutes to warm up the car, stop off to make out with your girlfriend and arrive at work on time, so get going." She tucks the cookies into his backpack along with an apple and hands it over. "Watch for black ice and keep your speed down, the cop will be out in town. Make sure you put your gloves in your pockets so you don't lose them—"

"Blah blah blah Ginger," he says, snatching up his backpack.

"—and wipe your feet when you get in the door, Doctor Wirth won't thank you for tracking mud through the place. Eat your sandwich first, and don't waste a perfectly good apple sticking it on a snowman's head and shooting tongue depressors at it with a tourniquet band. Your secret superhero name is _not_ William Tell."

"_Mom_," he whines, plotting revenge against Singh for tattling on him. "All the other guys will think I'm a dork if I don't do cool stuff!"

"So, if they all wanted to jump off a cliff you'd do it too?" Sarah's voice follows him into the living room, edged with laughter. "Fine. I can see it's no good telling you to behave, so just don't get caught."

"That's more like it!" he yells, and makes good his escape, smirking as he limps out the door into the cold clean air. The last thing he hears is Sarah singing in her kitchen.

_Now the day we were wed she said I went on a spree_

_The neighbor next door she swore was better than me_

_They go out every night and stay dancin' the morning away_

_And the pair leave me there to fare the best that I may . . . _

_10:30 p.m._

The movie was done and everyone was on their way to getting ready for bed when Greg spoke from the doorway.

"You're going to tell me to move out."

Sarah looked up from setting aside the oats she'd just put to soak for breakfast. He stood there watching her, his gaze wary, measuring; his feet were apart a bit, as if he was bracing himself.

"Why would we do that?" She put a pinch more sea salt in the water, gave it a quick stir and replaced the cover on the pot.

"Oh, I don't know . . . sponging off you for a year, having sex with my girlfriend on your couch and dirty clothes piled up by the washer . . . need more reasons? I got a million of 'em."

Sarah emptied out the teakettle and filled it with fresh cold water. "We invited you to live with us for as long as you like. That didn't include paying rent and utilities or we would have asked for them. I fully expect you and Roz have had sex on every available surface in this house including the dining room table, which is why much as I love you both, I have a bottle of lavender hydrosol and old towels in my cleaning cupboard. And having grown up with several brothers, if I ever came downstairs and found no dirty clothes piled up by the washer in a house with men in it, I'd know Armageddon was here." She took a fresh loaf of bread out of the keeper, put it on the board and began to cut slices for sandwiches and toast. "That's not what this is about though, is it?"

Greg said nothing, only watched her. Sarah gestured at a stool with the knife. "Sit. Talk to me."

After a moment he limped into the kitchen and perched on the stool, snitched a piece of bread, stuck his finger in the last of the butter and scooped it up, slathered it on the slice and took a big bite. Sarah put the rest of the bread in its bag and stowed it away, washed the butter dish and went to the fridge for a fresh supply.

"I'm only here because you threatened me with that machete of yours. Otherwise I have nothing else to say," Greg said between chews. "That's not true for you however. I'm sure you could tell all sorts of tales about the grand design you're putting in place to set yourself up as Queen Empress of the Adirondacks."

Sarah chuckled. "How ambitious of me." She wiped her hands on a paper towel and sat next to him. "What makes you say that?"

Greg tilted his head. "Your modesty becomes you but it's so last year. Bringing in a ringer is the new black, you know."

"Jason." Sarah nodded. "Thought so."

"You've got a yard ape now. It makes sense. I'm too old to bend to your will."

"So you think Jason is your replacement." She shifted a little, her sore hip bothering her a bit.

"Stop squirming and tell the truth, or I'll get out the truncheon and cattle prod again." Greg reached out. "Let me check that bruise. Tell me if Gene comes in so I can look guilty and excited at the same time." He poked and prodded her hip gently, then settled her sweater back in place.

"Well?" Sarah resumed her seat. "What do you think?"

"You're faking it." Greg picked up his bread and took a large bite.

"No, I'm not," Sarah said, amused at his deflection. "I meant about Jason."

"Why else would you be limping around and wincing when you perch on chairs? Are you deliberately mocking me?" Greg assumed an accusing air. "It's not nice to make fun of your patients. If you hadn't already been fired, you'd be fired."

"I was in an accident a couple of weeks ago, and the seat I'm sitting on is a hard stool," Sarah pointed out. "Why do you think I'm getting rid of you?"

"Didn't say that." Greg's denial rang hollow.

"Not in so many words, but the implication was pretty clear." Sarah leaned back against the island counter. "You're not some project or case file to me, Greg. You never have been. You're a member of our family now, and this is your home for as long as you care to stay. If that's for good, I'd be delighted." She looked at him directly. "I'm not getting rid of you or replacing you."

"Sure, you say that now. Wait till I bring home a baggie of local meth, two hookers and someone else's credit card. No wait, that's Jason in three years." Greg gave her a sidelong glance. Sarah resisted the urge to laugh.

"I think Roz would have something to say about that," she said. "After she finished kicking your ass from here to Syracuse and back again."

Greg rolled his shoulders. "The kid's a mess. You don't know anything about his family or environmental factors. He could be a complete waste of time."

Sarah nodded. "That's possible. But he deserves a chance to be something other than the label everyone's put on him."

"So you were considered a bad kid too," Greg said softly.

"Pretty much. It wasn't until my third attempt at rehab that someone finally decided to look past my case history and talk to me, not my reputation." Sarah glanced at Greg. "You had a label on you too, you know, at Mayfield." She watched his expression brighten with curiosity and hid a smile. "Everyone warned me you'd do nothing but play games and subvert any attempts at process."

"Respect mah authoritah!" Greg quoted, and she laughed.

"It was hard as hell to not react when you wouldn't talk. I really wanted to get into your head. I got impatient with you for delaying things, because I knew once we started working, you'd be an amazing person."

"Now you're just kissing up," Greg said, and nudged her. "Don't waste your energy, it's too late. I know how you operate now, O Desecrator of Bicycles."

Sarah chuckled. "I mean it. I read through your case history, and it seemed to me that no one had ever really listened to you, you know? You're damn good at deflecting and misdirection and outright nastiness if anyone gets too close to seeing the real you, because you know most people go by what they see on the surface. If you tell them you're okay or fed up or disgusted by them, they'll believe you without asking questions."

"Not you, though." Greg sounded exasperated and maybe just a little bit pleased. Sarah smiled.

"Not me."

"So that's what you're doing with the felon in training." He finished off the bread, pulled the tea towel from the rack and wiped his hands on it, then tossed it toward the washer. Sarah rolled her eyes.

"I see Armageddon's been delayed once again." She put a hand on his arm, light and gentle. "He's not your replacement. No one could ever do that. You're one of a kind, son. I'm glad you turned up in my life."

He looked away. "Sloppy sentimentalism," he groused, but she felt him relax just a little. "Aren't you going to bed or are you going to sit here and induce more nausea?"

"No, I'm done." She patted him and hopped off the stool, a little stiff.

"Take your damn pain meds," he said. "If you don't, I will." He stood. "I'd like to—I'm-I'm paying you rent and part of the utilities. And grocery money. Don't argue, just shut up and take it."

Sarah closed her eyes for a moment. "Okay."

"You all right?" He asked it sharply.

"Yeah. I'm fine." She opened her eyes, having successfully willed her tears back. Greg stared at her, then gave an abrupt nod and left the kitchen. When he was gone she sat on the stool, caught between joy and pain. _He won't be here too much longer,_ she thought, and accepted the heartache the realization caused. _But that's a good thing in the long run. I won't be selfish about this. _

"What's up?" Gene asked when she came into the bedroom a bit later. "You look sad. Greg giving you grief?"

Sarah climbed into the bed and brought the comforter up over her. "No," she said. "He's offered to pay rent and expenses." She moved up against Gene, taking comfort in his warmth. He put an arm around her.

"He won't be here much longer," he said. Sarah smiled a little; she'd known Gene would grasp the real issue without having to have it spelled out.

"I'll miss him," she said quietly.

"Yeah," Gene said. He kissed her temple. "I will too."

"Would you . . ." She hesitated, then went on. "Would you mind if we put his money in an escrow account?"

Gene brought her a little closer, mindful of her sore spots. "Fine by me. What are you up to?"

"Just planning for the future," Sarah said. "It's always good to have something tucked away for a rainy day." She put her hand over Gene's and closed her eyes. Her last thought before sleep claimed her was _what an extraordinary day._

_**When Sarah speaks to the tree she is saying 'thank you, beautiful tree' in Irish. **_

_**If you'd like to hear the song she sang, go to YT or iTunes and find Enya's version of 'Silent Night', sung in Irish. **_

_**'Three Weeks We Were Wed' is a great old song; Cherish the Ladies did a wonderful version of it on their album The Back Door, if you're interested in hearing it.  
**_

_**Many thanks for reading. If you are so inclined, please leave a review on your way out, it would really make my day.  
**_


	3. Chapter 3

**_(A/N: thanks to everyone who has added my story and me to their Alerts and Favorites lists, and everyone who continues to read this extended story. I'm honored and deeply grateful. -B)_**

_January 14__th_

_5:30 p.m._

Jason trudged over the packed snow, huddled deep inside his warm new coat. Mister Gibbs had taken him to WalMart earlier in the week and gotten him some clothes, allowing Jason to pick out what he'd wanted. That included the thick parka he wore now, though he still had Doctor Goldman's barn coat, the first new piece of clothing anyone had ever given him in his entire life, and his secret favorite.

"Sarah wants you over f'supper," Mister Gibbs had said this afternoon when Jason had arrived home from school. "It's all right by me if you'd like t'go. You c'n walk over, she'll bring you back when you're ready."

Jason thought about Doctor Goldman as he moved down the path. They'd already had a few sessions together, but they hadn't gone anything like the way he'd thought they would based on prior experience. She hadn't made him sit in a boring little room and answer stupid questions, hadn't lectured him about his record, hadn't acted like he was some kind of dangerous animal that needed constant supervision. Instead they'd spent time after school working on homework and baking cookies, and he'd gotten to take them back with him to Mister Gibbs's place. Another afternoon was dedicated to building a snow fort and waging an epic battle. Gene had been there for that and proved himself to be a decent shot with a snowball. It had been fun, but he couldn't figure out what she was doing. Weren't they supposed to be working on making him behave, turning him into a good person or something?

_("You'll always be a rotten little bastard. Nothin' will ever change that and don't you forget it.")_

Jason flinched away from the memory of his stepfather's voice and moved into the Goldmans yard in time to see Doctor House limping up the walk. The older man looked tired, but he nodded his head at Jason.

"Hey."

"Hey," Jason said warily. He still wasn't sure what to think of this guy.

"You up for some Hot Pursuit after supper?" House paused at the door.

"I'll have to ask Doctor Goldman," Jason said, uneasy. Was he being set up to do something bad so he'd get caught and sent back to Juvy? House stared at him.

"'kay," he said, and went inside. Jason followed him, apprehensive. His wariness was eased a bit by entry into the Goldmans home. He loved it here. Mister Gibbs was kind to him, had given him a comfortable room and everything he needed, but this felt more like what Jason had imagined a real home would be. He liked the sense of things happening, how it was quiet and bustling by turns, a hub of activity that always involved something interesting. He savored the rich colors all around, the music, the smell of good cooking, the give and take of conversation that didn't consist of drunken arguments or mockery.

"Hey Jason." Doctor Goldman stood in front of him, smiling. "Take off your coat and stay a while. Supper's on the stove, we'll eat shortly. Get your homework finished?"

"Yes ma'am," he said, shrugging out of his coat. Doctor Goldman took it and put it in the closet.

"Well done. Gene's in the office if you want to check out iTunes."

"Okay. Uh—" Jason hesitated. "Would it be—is it okay if I play Hot Pursuit with House and Gene later?"

Doctor Goldman rolled her eyes and sighed. "That game!" She gave him a keen look that was not unkind or mocking. "All right. I have my doubts about you learning to jack cars from those two pirates, but I'm just one woman here without Roz to back me up." She smiled suddenly, and it was like the sun warming him. Her continued friendliness was confusing; no one had ever treated him this way without wanting something in return.

"It's just a game," he muttered, and didn't dare to tell her he'd known how to break into a car by the time he was eight. Belatedly he remembered his manners. "Thanks."

"You're welcome. It'll be an hour or so before food's on the table, so if you're hungry now you can have some fruit. There are bananas and pears in a bowl in the dining room." She didn't try to touch him as he half-feared, just nodded and headed back to the kitchen.

He took a banana since it had been a couple of hours since he'd devoured a peanut butter sandwich on coming home from school, and headed for the office. His iPod was almost full but he could fit a few more songs on it.

Gene was sitting at Doctor Goldman's desk, using her computer to talk with someone. Jason stopped as he came into the doorway. The woman on the monitor was really pretty—in fact she was beautiful, with thick blonde hair and big blue eyes and a nice smile. She and Gene were laughing about something. Jason watched them both, his heart sinking. His stepdad had brought home girlfriends when Mom was away . . . was this the same kind of thing?

"Hey, who's the cutie behind you?" the woman was saying. Gene turned around. To Jason's surprise he didn't get mad or even look guilty.

"Hey Jason," he said easily. "I'm talking with Laynie, she's Sarah's friend and mine too. Come on over and get introduced."

Jason edged just a little closer. "Hi," he said.

"Hey, nice to meet you! I'm Laynie." The woman had a warm sweet voice, and her smile widened to reveal dimples in her cheeks. "Did Gene say your name was Jason?"

"Yes ma'am," he mumbled, horrified to feel a blush heating his cheeks.

"Oh god honey, don't call me ma'am! You're makin' me feel like I'm a hundred years old!" She laughed, a musical, merry sound, and Jason fell in love with her right then and there. "Just call me Laynie, okay?"

"Okay Laynie," he said, wishing the floor would open up and swallow him.

"Great! Now what are you and this other handsome man up to this evening?" Laynie waggled her brows.

"Videogames after dinner," Gene said. Laynie rolled her eyes just the way Doctor Goldman had done earlier.

"Boys and their toys, I swear. I'm sure House is in on it too. If letting you guys play games is how Sarah manages to fill up the house with a bunch of handsome men, sign me up!"

"You are incorrigible," Gene said, and Laynie laughed.

"That's my middle name and don't you forget it." She leaned forward a little and Jason saw she had cleavage—really nice cleavage. The heat in his face intensified. "Did you guys get the video footage I sent from the Arkansas tornadoes?"

"I'd rather watch you trolling for a date," House said from behind Jason. Laynie's face lit up.

"House, you hunka burnin' love! Why aren't you here feeding me grapes and tickling my fancy?"

"I'm more interested in a little girl-on-girl action," House said, leaning against the doorjamb. "Got any recent vids you can share?"

"I would remind both of you we have someone under eighteen in the room," Gene said. There was a warning note in his voice.

"Hey, the kid's gotta learn about the world sometime," House said.

"Agreed, but not now and not this way," Gene said firmly. "Unless you would both care to explain to Sarah . . ."

Jason was amazed to see Laynie flinch. "Ouch. Uh, no. Sorry babe," she fluttered her lashes at House and gave him an apologetic smile, and Jason felt a surge of jealousy. "Another time, okay?"

"That's what they all say," House said. "Fine, switch to the G-rated stuff for the ankle-biter."

"About that tornado footage," Gene said. "You sold it, right?"

"Yeah, AP bought the rights. They're becoming good customers," Laynie said. "I think next summer we'll make a nice chunk of money off vids. That should help us break even, maybe even buy some new equipment."

"You—you chase tornadoes?" Jason dared to speak up, his interest momentarily piqued beyond Laynie's physical attraction now. "For real? Like the guys on Storm Chasers?"

"Yup," Laynie said, smiling. "You're interested in science?"

"He's interested in your bilateral symmetry," House said. "So am I, for that matter."

"Going to mention that to Roz?" Gene said mildly. House snorted.

"You would bring that up."

"Aw come on, Roz knows I wouldn't cut in on her good thing even if I swung that way," Laynie said. "Anyway, I was talking to Jason, you big horndog."

"Pot, this is kettle," House said, and Laynie laughed. "Okay, I know when to leave. Catch ya later, Lezzy Cornfed." He straightened and limped off into the living room.

"That man," Laynie said with obvious affection. "Now where were we? Oh yeah. You like science, Jason?"

Jason took the seat next to Gene. He could hardly believe he was talking to someone like Laynie, and she actually wanted to talk to _him_. "Yeah . . . yeah, I do. I—I, um, I don't know anything about tornadoes, though."

"I can send you some basics if you like. Hey, I got it! You're taking science in school, right?" At Jason's nod she continued. "I'll bet your teacher would be willing to give you some extra credit if you make your house a weather station."

"Weather station?" Jason felt a second tingle of excitement, a little different from the first one.

"Yeah, Nat Geo has a good package of instruments. I'll order you a kit. You can set it up to work with your computer, keep a log of weather conditions. It'll go into the national database. Would you like that?"

"Yeah. Cool," Jason said, and smiled a little.

"Absolutely cool," Laynie said, her blue eyes twinkling. "If you give me the name of your school I'll get in touch with your science teacher and see if she or he will do extra credit. Maybe they'll even set up a station in the lab if they haven't done it already." She leaned back. "So tell me what subjects you like besides science."

It seemed like they'd been talking only a few moments before Doctor Goldman was standing behind Jason saying "Supper's ready, we'll call you back a little later, okay Laynie?" And then he was seated at the table, still amazed at the sheer amount of food that everyone else seemed to take for granted. Tonight it was hamburgers, home fries and salad. He faced the greens with less than enthusiasm; he'd never liked vegetables much.

"Two bites," Doctor Goldman said when she caught him staring down at his plate. "In fact, how about everyone at the table doing two bites of salad?" She glanced at House, who was busy wolfing down a hamburger and a pile of fries. He glared at Doctor Goldman.

"The whole reason why I decided to live past twenty-one was so I could do whatever I felt like doing," he said. "That includes not eating salad."

"Hey man," Gene said. He took the tongs and put two small piles of greens on House's plate, then two on his own. "Just do it."

"_Jesus_," House whined. Jason watched him, surprised by the petulant tone. "I don't wanna eat salad."

"Two bites. It won't kill you, I promise," Doctor Goldman said. She was trying to look stern but her eyes held laughter.

"I could choke on the damn stuff and then you'd be sorry," House said. He swung his gaze to Jason. "This is your fault, rugrat. Thanks a lot."

For answer Jason stabbed some lettuce leaves soaked in ranch dressing and stuffed them in his mouth. He chewed them slowly, his eyes never leaving House's face. House gave him a hard stare. Slowly he reached for his fork, speared a mouthful of salad and held it up. "We who are about to die salute you," he said, and ate the bite of greens as if it was poison. Doctor Goldman sighed and covered her eyes with her hand, but Jason could tell she was trying hard not to laugh.

"Two bites," she said. Gene picked up his fork.

"I was going to have some anyway," he said.

"Brownnoser," House said through a mouthful of food. Jason couldn't help but snicker. "Don't laugh, Junior. That includes you."

"If you'd shut up and eat you'd be done by now," Doctor Goldman said. "So just do it, all of you."

"How about you?" Gene said. "I haven't seen you eat any salad."

"Yeah," House chimed in. "Walk your walk, woman."

Doctor Goldman raised her brows. "I ate an entire bowlful."

"I didn't see it," House said. "Where is this bowl of which you speak?"

"I didn't see a bowl either," Gene said. Doctor Goldman snatched the tongs, took a pile of greens and slapped them on her plate. She added some dressing, took a big mouthful, munched, swallowed, snagged another bite, ate that too, and then gave the rest of the table a meaningful look.

"Pony up, boys," she said, her voice low and dangerous. She gripped her fork in her fist. Jason eyed her warily until she winked at him.

"Better do as she says," Gene said. "She's pretty good with that thing."

"I bet you've got the marks to prove it," House said. "Especially on your b—"

"Just. Eat," Doctor Goldman said loudly. "Do it now, or I'll find the Krazy Glue and close up the flies on every pair of briefs you both own."

"You wouldn't," House said in an incredulous tone. Gene shook his head and took a mouthful of salad.

"Don't go there," he said, chewing. "Just hear and obey."

It dawned on Jason that he was watching grownups tease each other. He'd seen many fights and cruel exchanges between adults, in particular his mother and stepdad, but this was different. It sounded serious but the intent was not. They were having fun.

Eventually supper was finished and cleared away. "We'll do some dessert once everything's settled," Doctor Goldman said. "You boys go play and I'll bring it to you later, I want to talk with Laynie for a while."

The fire in the living room added an extra coziness Jason enjoyed, even though most of his attention was focused on the game. He sat on an ottoman in front of the two easy chairs Gene and House had pulled up, his legs crossed and a throw wrapped around him, hogging the controls with delight. He was warm, full and feeling relatively comfortable, though he kept a cautious awareness of the two men behind him. It was never wise to let your guard down; adults were unpredictable.

Gene had just taken over the controls when the phone rang. A few minutes later Doctor Goldman emerged from the office and stood beside Gene. All the easy humor was gone from her face; she looked pale, and her voice shook a little when she spoke.

"That was Doctor Cuddy." Jason saw House look up, obviously surprised. "She's asked me to come down to Princeton. Wilson's under seventy-two hour observation."

House's expression went blank, but not before Jason caught a flash of shock in his eyes. Gene handed the controls back to Jason and got to his feet. He put his arms around Doctor Goldman and drew her to him. She slipped her arms about his waist and lay her cheek to his shoulder.

"Are you going tonight?" Gene asked. "You know they won't let you in to see him while he's seventy-two'ed."

"First thing tomorrow morning." She sounded tired. "According to Cuddy he's been in Mayfield since Wednesday. By the time I get down there he'll be assigned to a ward, more than likely. I don't know for sure how long I'll be away but probably no more than a couple of days, just a turnaround trip."

"How bad is it?" Gene asked.

"I don't know. Cuddy wouldn't give me details over the phone except to say he's not in any physical danger."

House relaxed at that, though he still watched Doctor Goldman, his gaze intense in an impassive face. "Did he commit himself?" he asked.

"I'm not sure. As soon as I get there and find out what's going on, if I can tell you anything I'll call." She lifted her head and moved back, letting go of her husband. "I'd better head upstairs and pack." She turned to Jason. "I won't be able to walk you home tonight, but Gene or Greg will take you."

"It's okay," Jason said, uneasy at the anxiety in her eyes. She gave him a brief smile.

"Thanks. I'm sorry if I scared you. I'm worried about an old friend of mine, he needs my help."

Jason nodded. He appreciated being talked to like an adult instead of a clueless little kid. "I hope he's all right."

"Me too," Doctor Goldman said softly. "That's very kind of you, Jason." She put a hand on House's arm. "I know you want to come with me, but I think it would be better to wait until we find out what's going on."

House looked away. "You think I'll make things worse."

"I think you don't have the objectivity—"

"And you do?" House snapped. "Bullshit. If you can help him, so can I."

Doctor Goldman squeezed his arm gently. Jason noticed House didn't pull away. "Do you really want to come with me?" she asked after a moment. House nodded but didn't say anything. "Can you take a couple of personal days?"

"I know how to set up days off," House said, but this time he didn't sound angry. He got to his feet. "I'd better get packed as well." He paused. "I do have clean underwear, right? With open flies?"

Doctor Goldman made a sound that might have been a laugh. She gave House's arm a little rub and let go. "Bright and early means five a.m.," she said, and moved toward the stairs.

Later, as Gene escorted him home, Jason said "Will Doctor Goldman be away long?"

"I don't think so," Gene said. "She should be back in time for your next session."

"She doesn't act like the other doctors," Jason said, and then wished he'd kept his mouth shut. Gene didn't pounce on him with questions though. He said only

"Sarah has her own way of helping people. She uses the method she understands will be most effective, but if it doesn't work she'll try something else." He was silent a moment. "She'll always have your well-being and healing foremost in her mind and heart, Jason. It might not always seem that way, but it'll still be true."

They crossed the yard and went to the side door. Through the window Jason could see Mister Gibbs sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee, quite obviously waiting for him. The idea of people making sure he was cared for was still a strange one, but Jason realized he was beginning to like it.

"All right, get inside before you freeze to death," Gene was saying. He grinned at Jason. "Come on over tomorrow. We'll have a guys night in, just you, me and Bob."

"Cool," Jason said. "Thanks for dinner and the game."

"Our house is your house. Man, it's mothering cold out here!" Gene tugged his hat down over his ears. It made him look like a total geek with his big nose sticking out, but Jason had the impression Gene didn't really care. "Get your chores done first before you come over and bundle up good before you leave, okay?"

"Okay. G'night," Jason said, and opened the door, wondering if this was the way normal people felt—tired and worried and excited all at the same time. He stomped his feet on the mat and went in to where kindness and a warm clean bed waited.

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined please leave a review, it would really make my day._**


	4. Chapter 4

_January 15__th_

_7:30 a.m._

They've stopped at the halfway point on their way to Mayfield to put gas in the minivan and get something to eat. Greg opts for black coffee and a bagel, while Sarah buys a sausage egg biscuit, half a dozen doughnuts to munch on along with the healthier stuff packed in the cooler, and the inevitable cup of tea.

"What do you think happened?" he asks as they continue the journey. He's driving now, having switched with Sarah when they stopped; it's something to do to keep him occupied. It helps that Johnny Rocket is playing 'Mother Earth' on his docked iPod as the miles begin to unspool once more.

"I don't know," Sarah says, and sips her tea. "I have some ideas, but . . . I really don't know."

"Come on," he scoffs. "You've known him longer than I have. You must have some clue."

Sarah tips her head back. "I spent most of last night trying to put things together. I knew when he came up over Christmas that something obviously wasn't right, but . . ."

Greg can see he's not going to get anywhere following this tack, so he tries another one. "Have you heard anything more from Cuddy?"

"No, nothing. From the way she spoke last night I'd say she's deeply worried but she isn't freaked out. That suggests Wilson committed himself to observation voluntarily, and he didn't try anything physical."

"No overt suicide attempts." Sarah nods.

"I can't say that with certainty, but it seems likely. He might have said he was thinking about it, though."

"Catalyst?" Greg says. That's highly likely, and he wonders for the thousandth time if it was something he did or said. _Don't go there, _he warns himself._ Don't take this on. _

"Yeah," Sarah says. "There's a good chance something set him off—one final straw that broke the camel's back."

"That camel should have died years ago." Greg maneuvers past a group of semis and checks his speed; the trucks are all doing the legal limit, which means a statie's somewhere in the area. "He thinks he has to accept every bale of straw that gets dumped on him, which leads to a broken back pretty damn fast. Sound familiar?" He can't resist the jab.

"Why do you think I said no when he proposed?" Sarah says, smiling just a little. She sobers up quickly though. "So what could send Jim over the edge? It had to be something with a deep personal meaning."

"No divorce papers this time," Greg says. "Maybe Sam stole his coasters."

"He got drunk enough to pass out the day she left him," Sarah says. "It's not like he hasn't done that before, but usually not so close to an event."

Greg listens to the music. He thinks through what Sarah's said; in the back of his mind he makes a note to tell Gene to add this song to the Flatliner playlist. "Is it possible," he says out loud, "that Wilson is trying to do what I did?"

One of the things he's always liked about Sarah is her ability to grasp a concept without having to have it spelled out in detail; she also doesn't usually muddy things with emotion or subjectivity. "You think he's looking for a formula?" She considers it. "You mentioned it during the argument you had with him a few weeks back. You really believe he's trying to do that? Find some magic equation that gives him what he wants?"

"Everyone's trying to do that," Greg points out. "Some are just more obvious in their efforts than others."

"Hmm. Agreed, to a degree anyway." Sarah takes a bite of sandwich. The iPod has shuffled to an Allman Brothers song, 'Midnight Rider'. "The fact that he committed himself could mean he's able to recognize there's something seriously wrong. In a way that's good, if it's accurate."

"But there's still something seriously wrong," Greg says. Sarah swallows and drinks her tea.

'Yeah, there is. You know Jim. He's the last one to let go like this."

"Guess we'll find out," Greg says, and can't ignore the clench of anxiety deep inside. He hasn't felt that particular sensation in some time, and he doesn't like its return.

"And I don't own the clothes I'm wearing, and the road goes on forever," Sarah sings softly with the song. "And I've got one more silver dollar, but I'm not gonna let 'em catch me, no, I'm not gonna let 'em catch the midnight rider."

Greg feels an icy chill of recognition slide a slow, cold path down his spine.

_11:30 a.m._

Mayfield looks the same as ever—grey and forbidding. Sarah stands next to Greg after she gets out of the van. He stares at her.

"I don't need you to hold my hand," he says a little more sharply than he'd intended. Sarah gives him a smile.

"Maybe I need you to hold mine," she says quietly, and he remembers that she worked here for several years before he got her fired. Now she'll be walking the corridors and meeting former colleagues who know about her childhood and youth because of him, who also know she was let go—they might have even had a hand in getting rid of her.

"So much for women being stronger than men, you weenie." He moves to her side. Together they go through the parking lot, up the walk and into the side entrance reserved for visitors and are met by their amusement park tour guide, otherwise known as the daytime assistant supervising psychiatrist.

"Doctor House, Doctor Goldman." Doctor Beasley gives them both a warm, sympathetic smile. Greg fights the urge to backhand it from her face. "Great to see you again, I'm just sorry it's under these circumstances." She indicates her office. "Come on in and we'll talk."

"What can you tell us?" Sarah says once they're seated and the door's closed. Greg pushes away claustrophobia—this place is tiny-and concentrates on Beasley's words.

"I can give you a couple of details, but Doctor Nolan hasn't approved a full disclosure yet." Doctor Beasley sounds somber. "James was admitted Wednesday evening. He came in voluntarily. After observation and testing it was determined he should be placed on the long-term ward. He's in isolation at the moment."

Greg remembers the locked padded room, the smell of sweat, vomit and old urine overriding the bright, offensive stench of wintergreen disinfectant. Wilson is probably curled up in a corner as far away as possible from the stains and germs. He sees it in his mind's eye: Wilson in flannel sleep pants and a tee shirt with bare feet and uncombed hair, huddled in on himself. The memory of burning emptiness comes back to him for a moment and he shivers. Sarah shifts a bit in her seat, and her knee presses gently against his. The warmth of her touch eases his fear, reminds him he is no longer alone.

"Is there a chance we could see him tomorrow?" she is asking quietly. Beasley purses her lips a bit.

"It's not hospital policy, but we can see what Doctor Nolan says."

"Could we actually speak with His Holiness?" Greg asks. Beasley gives him that condescending quelling look he'd grown to hate while on the ward.

"Doctor Nolan's got a full schedule today, but he may be able to call you this evening."

"Actually he can see you now," a deep voice says from the doorway. Nolan stands there smiling at them, his dark eyes warm. "My apologies, Doctor Beasley. I didn't mean to interrupt. It just seemed like a good idea to pop in and see what I can do to help."

Five minutes later Greg and Sarah are in the head honcho's office being offered coffee and tea. This is more like it—not luxurious by any means, but a bit more spacious and well-furnished than Beasley's cramped area. It reminds Greg of Sarah's old office, soothing and comfortable without being patronizing. He wonders what she's thinking as she sits there, quiet and unassuming in her shabby black parka, her hair tamed in a thick braid.

"Good to see you, Doctor Goldman," Nolan says, smiling. He flashes Greg a quick grin. "You too, Doctor House. Congratulations on regaining your license. No one deserves it more."

"Thanks," Greg says. "What the hell's going on with Wilson?"

"Ah. Brass tacks." Nolan sits down. "Well, there isn't much I can tell you at this point without violating confidentiality. But I can say James is in good shape physically."

"So he didn't try self-termination," Sarah says. Nolan tilts his head and smiles but doesn't say anything. She returns his smile, though her gaze is bleak. "Is there any chance we could see him tomorrow when he's out of isolation?'

"I think a brief meeting could be arranged," Nolan says, to Greg's surprise. "It always helps the patient to realize he's got people who care."

"Well of course he does," Sarah says, her tone acerbic. She's hiding strong feelings, Greg knows her tells by now and she always gets prickly when she's feeling vulnerable or hurting. "Does he need anything?"

"He's got everything we can safely give him, Sare. You know how the protocol works," Nolan says gently. "You've had a long drive down. Have you found a place to stay? There's a good hotel just a couple of miles away . . ."

While they discuss mundane details Greg looks out the window. He can see the yard from here, and while it is winter and no one is outside of course, he remembers the shadows of the trees tossing over dead grass in stifling heat, and the taste of hazelnut ice cream smooth and cool on his tongue, a moment of hope outside the pain and fear. He wonders if Wilson will have anyone to give him that kind of encouragement, whether he'll respond if someone does. Maybe he should be the one . . . He shies away from that thought, knowing it holds disaster in its wake, and focuses on the conversation at hand.

"Come back tomorrow at nine and I'll make sure you can have fifteen minutes each with James," Nolan is saying. "After that you'll be restricted to regular visiting days and times, but because of the distance I'll see if we can set up phone calls once a week or so, if James is agreeable."

"That's more than generous," Sarah says before Greg can speak. "Thanks, Darryl." She gets to her feet, and perforce Greg follows her. "We'll see you tomorrow then."

"You certainly will." Nolan smiles at them. "But first let me walk you to your car."

They're almost to the parking lot when Nolan says "I miss working with you, Sarah. The committee made a mistake letting you go. You were doing superlative work here, as Doctor House would probably agree."

"Thanks," Sarah says.

"Of course I agree. Why'd you think I arranged it so she'd work on me and no one else?" Greg says. Nolan gives him a keen look and puts a gentle hand on Sarah's shoulder.

"I'd like it very much if you'd call me and let me know how things are going for you," he says. "I'd be happy to write a letter of recommendation if you need one."

Sarah looks away. It is obvious she's fighting strong emotion. "Thanks," she says again. Nolan gives her a little squeeze before letting go.

"You're welcome. You have my apologies for taking so long to offer."

Sarah turns her head to stare him in the eye. "You had to be sure I was okay first. I understand."

A slow, rueful smile spreads over Nolan's face. "You always were quick on the uptake," he says, and they both laugh a little. Greg rolls his eyes at this moment of professional solidarity. Nolan grins at him, his dark eyes twinkling.

"Hey, cut us a little slack," he says. "After all, we're just shrinks."

"Huh," Greg says, but he can't help a snort of amusement.

The last thing they see on leaving is Nolan standing on the steps to the side entrance, his hand raised in a goodbye wave. He is framed by grim grey stone, an icon of normalcy hemmed in by the physical representation of despair and fear. Greg knows it will haunt him in his dreams.

They find a place to stay, the one Nolan recommended, a pretty decent hotel with a small kitchen in the room and a comfortable couch in front of the tv. A little financial persuasion lets them check in an hour or so ahead of time. The housekeeper is just leaving as they arrive.

"We can get pizza in later," Greg says. "Anyplace to get some beer around here?"

"Why don't we do Indian instead? If we order from the Raj they'll bring us a six pack when they deliver," Sarah says. "They make really good lamb kebabs and their samosas are to die for."

Greg nods. "Cool." He tosses his backpack on the second bed, does the same for Sarah's overnight bag on the first bed and goes to the couch. With a sigh he settles in and turns on the tv while Sarah puts things away in the fridge. He wishes he'd brought the Martin six-string with him; he wants the comfort of some music under his hands and a good beer buzz to help him forget why they're there.

Sarah sits down at the other end of the couch and kicks off her boots, stretches out her legs and tucks a pillow behind her head. "Shoulda brought the guitars," she says, and Greg thinks again of that moment in the yard at Mayfield when she'd shown him her scars and given him her trust. They've both made mistakes with each other over the months, but now whether he deserves it or not they've become friends who know each other pretty well and still like each other. It's one of the best things to ever happen to him. He'd never admit it, but it's still true.

Much to his surprise Sarah takes a bottle of beer when their order comes in. There's nothing on tv, not even the mindless entertainment of pro wrestling or Real Housewives or some other lowest-common-denominator catastrophe, so they're listening to the iPod. He's been digging out his old blues-rock favorites from the early seventies lately which means there's a definite mellow-stoner vibe going, with only the sweet smell of pot and cherry kijafa missing.

"I feel like I should get the rolling tray out from under the couch," Sarah says.

"Standard equipment in every dorm room when I was in school," Greg says, amused. "You're drinking beer. You never drink beer."

"I drink beer," she says. "Once every couple of years I have a bottle. It reminds me I like whiskey better." She takes a healthy slug of Yuengling and munches the last of a kheema samosa.

"You're worried about tomorrow," he deduces.

"Of course I am," she says without hesitation. "I'm afraid for Jim. He's in the right place, but that doesn't mean he won't have a tough time ahead of him."

Greg takes another lamb kebab. "He's a control freak. He'll resist every inch of the way because he knows once he loses one fight, he's lost them all."

"The whole façade will crumble," she says. Greg nods.

"What are you going to say to him tomorrow?"

"I don't know." She finishes off the beer and sets the bottle aside, relaxes back into the couch. "It always used to piss me off when I was in rehab and someone would hand me a pat line or a bunch of fluff, you know—the things people think they have to say. I don't want to do that with him." She sighs. "If he'll even talk."

"Yeah." Greg cradles his beer against his chest, doing his best to ignore the tightness there. "Yeah."

Later that evening while Sarah's in the shower, he calls Roz.

"Hey _amante_." The pleased surprise in her warm voice eases his soul. "How's it going?"

"Life sucks and then you die," he says. She chuckles.

"Same as always then," she says. "Will you have a chance to see your friend?"

"Tomorrow morning," he says. "Then we'll come home."

"Good, because I miss you."

"Miss you too." He stretches out a little on the couch. "Read to me."

"I hear and obey," she says, a smile in her words. "You won't like it though, it's Dickinson."

"Shit," he groans. "Oh, what the hell. Just read it anyway."

There's the sound of pages turning. "Here, I think you might like this one:

_I can wade Grief-_

_whole pools of it-_

_I'm used to that-_

_But the least push of Joy_

_breaks up my feet-_

_And I tip-drunken-_

_Let no Pebble-smile-_

_Twas the New Liquor-_

_That was all!_

_Power is only Pain-_

_Stranded, thro' Discipline,_

_Till Weights-will hang-_

_Give Balm-to Giants-_

_And they'll wilt-like Men;_

_Give-Himmaleh-_

_They'll carry-Him."_

"Power is only pain," he says after a time.

"Old Emily was pretty smart," Roz says. "Will you be able to sleep tonight?"

"Don't know," he says, but there's an easing of tension inside him just at her presence, however distant she might be in reality. "Maybe."

"Call me if you have trouble," she says. "Hell, call me anyway. I miss you."

"Good," he says, just to make her laugh.

_January 16__th_

_9:02 a.m._

"I want you to remember something," Sarah says as they're walking down the corridor to the visitor's area. "I know Jim. He's going to try to dump what's happened on someone else. If he says y'all are at fault, remember that you're not."

"You gonna take your own advice?" Greg shoots back. Sarah glances at him.

"I'll do my best," she says, and then they've arrived at their destination. When they are ushered into the waiting area adjacent to the visitor's room, Doctor Beasley says

"James would like to see Doctor Goldman first."

Sarah nods. "Okay," she says. Greg feels his gut clench.

"Great," he mutters, and watches as Sarah moves to the door, gives a quiet knock and goes in. She is there for the full fifteen minutes. At times Greg hears Wilson's raised voice, but Sarah does not reciprocate as far as he can tell. When she comes out at last he manages a glimpse of the other man. He's sitting with an orderly close behind him. Wilson's arms are wrapped tight around his chest, his head bowed. Beasley slips into the room and closes the door behind her.

"He was yelling at you," he says. Sarah sits next to him. She doesn't seem unduly upset, but her sea-green eyes hold sadness.

"He's very agitated," she says. "He's having trouble controlling his reactions. Don't be surprised if he goes off on you."

"He won't want to see me," Greg says.

"I talked with him about that. He's reconsidering his decision." Sarah sits back but she doesn't relax. "He's confused and scared, Greg. He doesn't want you to see him like this, but he also wants the reassurance that you're here, no matter what he might say to the contrary."

Beasley comes out a minute or so later. "Doctor Wilson has agreed to see you."

Greg remembers the room well—small, stark, bland colors, cheap furniture. The orderly is in the corner, seated on one of the plastic chairs; usually there's no one standing guard this way unless the patient has demonstrated a tendency to get physical. That little fact scares Greg more than anything else that's gone on so far. There is a table bolted to the floor in the middle of the room, and Wilson is sitting at it. He's hunched over now, his folded arms resting on the tabletop, fingers clenched together, knuckles white; he doesn't look up when Greg comes in and sits opposite him. The door closes, and silence falls. Greg studies the other man. He looks pretty much as Greg imagined him—tousled hair, grey tee shirt and blue cardigan, flannel pants, socks and slippers. There's a plastic patient ID bracelet on his right wrist; Greg can just make out the print: WILSON, JAMES EVAN DOB 2/23/65 ADM1/13/11 PTID22666989.

"What the hell do you want?" Wilson says at last. His voice is rough, teetering on the edge of a growl.

"Just stopped by to say hey," Greg says. Wilson lifts his head. There are dark smudges under his eyes and the boyish contours of his face have planed down, as if he's lost weight. He gives Greg a frigid stare but says nothing.

"What happened?" Greg asks quietly. Wilson looks at his hands once more.

"What the _fuck_ do you care?" His low voice is filled with scathing fury. It isn't as if Greg hasn't heard Wilson talk this way before, but there's a hard, icy undertone that puts him on alert. This really isn't just a hissy fit or an attempt at mimicry; Wilson is in real trouble. That cold fingertip glides down his spine, just as it did on the ride here yesterday.

"You wouldn't be in here if something hadn't replaced that terror of imperfection you carry around like a badge of honor," Greg says. "I'm betting you considered suicide, it scared you and you came here."

Wilson laughs. It's an ugly sound, harsh and contemptuous. Greg's interest sharpens despite his discomfort. "So you have thought about it," he says softly. "More than once. And for a while now."

"_Fuck_ you." It's a curse straight from the heart and sincerely meant. Greg hides his flinch.

"What happened?"

Wilson looks down. "You and Goldman decided to tag-team me. Good cop, bad cop. That's original."

"Damn, you've discovered our cunning plan. Wait till I use the cattle prod," Greg says. "Though knowing you the way I do, you'll enjoy it way too much."

"Get out," Wilson says. He sits up and looks away, his arms folded tight across his chest again.

"Was it Sam?" It's a shot in the dark. Wilson doesn't react. "She didn't empty the trash can on schedule? Put the milk in the door? Forgot to pre-treat stains?" Greg sits back. "You might as well talk about it now, because sooner or later they'll get it out of you. You won't have a choice if you want your life back."

"_What_ life?" Wilson says. The question-statement is pure, acidic bitterness. Greg stares at him, his heart sinking. He's been afraid of this ever since he heard the news of Wilson's coming here. But he has to go there, so in he plunges.

"What do you mean, 'what life'? You're blaming all this on _me?_"

"Damn straight I am. I helped you when you needed it, but when I . . . I came to you, you walked away!" There is bewilderment buried deep under the rage, and that's far worse to endure than the animus directed at him. "I was your best friend . . . for—for years I put up with your endless stupid shit-your addiction, your fucking midnight calls from jail or a bar or half-passed out on the floor of your place, but when I needed someone you-you just—you _abandoned _me, like a shabby old couch left on the curb . . . like _garbage_. And then as if that wasn't enough, you took away the only person . . . the only one who's ever really loved me." Wilson leans forward and faces him. He glares at Greg; he's shaking, his face flushed, his dark eyes filled with hatred. "Yeah, I lied when I said it wasn't your fault because that's what friends do, but boy was I wrong. You _bastard. _You . . . you put me in here. I hope you remember that every waking moment. I hope you have nightmares about it every night." He draws in a breath. "Get out. Just—just get out. Don't come back."

"Wilson—" Greg begins, not sure what he's going to say next. It doesn't matter.

"I SAID GET OUT!" Wilson shouts, his face contorted with fury as he slams his fist on the table, making the cheap wood jump. The orderly stands up, comes forward to put a hand on Wilson's shoulder. Greg has never seen him lose it like this. Without another word he gets to his feet and leaves. The door is closed behind him and then Greg and Sarah are on their way down the hall, talking with Nolan. The abrupt change disorients Greg, makes him wonder if he just imagined that hideous little confrontation with someone he once considered the only friend he'd ever have.

"It's early days of course," Nolan is saying. "But I believe his prognosis is a good one, though you might not think so now. I'll certainly keep you both informed as to his progress. When he has calling privileges I'll be sure to give him your numbers."

"I don't think he'll be putting either one of us at the top of his phone tree list," Greg says. Nolan gives him a considering look.

"You might be surprised, Doctor House. What you heard today was someone doing his best to protect himself. He's expressing a lot of hostility and rage because he's scared, unsure of what's going to happen next. Don't take it too personally."

Greg almost laughs out loud at that statement. His former best friend has just slammed the door on their relationship, probably for good, and he's not supposed to take it personally. _Riiiight_, he thinks, but says nothing, just continues on his way to the parking lot, and escape.

_1 p.m._

They are well on their way home when Greg says finally "So what's your take?" Sarah's driving; they'll switch at the halfway point again. He's almost afraid to say anything, since his own diagnostic conclusion has not offered a cheerful prospect, to say the least.

Sarah is silent for a long time. Then, "I think he's hit the breaking point for real."

"_Shit._" That's what he thinks too.

"Did he blame you?"

"Pretty much." He tries to sound cheerful but it falls flat.

"He blamed me too." Sarah glances at him. "It's not your fault. It's not mine either. Don't take it on, Greg."

"He had a couple of relevant points, like me killing his girlfriend," Greg snaps at her. "I had a hand in this. So did you."

"Maybe so, but we are not ultimately responsible for the way Jim chooses to live his life and deal with things, any more than he's responsible for you and me and how we act." Sarah's voice is flat, emphatic. "Acknowledge whatever's truthful about what difficulties you did cause, make amends and move on."

"Difficulties." He can't help a bark of derisive laughter. "Just words." His gut is knotted up with guilt and fear.

"No they're not." Sarah's voice is strong now. "Jim's pattern has always been to please people, to be all things to everyone. No one can do that for long without cracking up, so his backup is to dump the blame on the people he helps, make them the guilty party in the exchange when they make mistakes or don't reciprocate in equal measure or turn out to be imperfect human beings. Somehow that pattern's broken now, but it's all he's got so he's trying to make it work by pushing it. You and I are convenient targets." She sighs softly. "In a way it's a sort of compliment. We're both close to his heart and he's known us the longest, so we're the ones he'll smack hardest."

Greg thinks about it. "Continue," he says after a brief silence.

"If you feel he had valid points, then when he's ready, discuss them with him. Depending on what stage of recovery he's in, he'll either be ready to talk or he won't. Patience will bring rewards to both of you. It won't be easy." She moves into the fast lane and passes a flatbed truck loaded with hay bales. "But it's not ultimately your fault or mine that he's where he is. Jim's road to this place began a long time ago, before we ever met him. That's true for you and me as well." She is silent a moment. "You know you can talk with me about this. I can help, if you want me to."

"'kay," he says after he thinks about it. Sarah nods.

"Okay."

"Power is only pain," he says aloud, though he didn't mean to. Sarah glances at him.

"You know Dickinson?"

"No," he growls. "It's something Roz read to me."

"Stranded thro' Discipline/till Weights will hang," she says. "That was a good choice to read to you. Dickinson understood how pain and suffering can strengthen a soul, or tear it down. She chose strength. I hope Wilson does too."

The rest of the journey is taken more or less in silence, both of them thinking about the events of the morning and their responses to what's happened.

It's dark by the time they get back. Greg sees the lights of home shining out on the snow and thinks of Wilson sitting at the table, his arms wrapped tight around himself. He hopes that somehow his friend will find his way to a haven like this one. If there's a way he can help, he will, though he's still convinced any attempts at aid on his part will end in explosions and buildings turned to rubble.

That night, as he lies in bed with his door cracked open, he hears Sarah in the living room with the Martin. She settles in, tunes up, then plays a bluesy little riff before she begins picking a chord. Her sweet alto voice reaches him, clear and true.

"I have not come to testify/about our bad, bad misfortune and I ain't here a-wonderin' why . . . but I'll live on and I'll be strong/'cause it just ain't my cross to bear."

Is he responsible for Wilson's breakdown? Greg lies in the darkness, remembering the late-night phone calls, the lies and the games, the times he bunked on Wilson's couch because he was too drunk or stoned to get home, messing with the series of women Wilson insisted on marrying . . . and Amber. He cringes at that, but it's there, looming over everything just as Wilson said it would, inescapable, overwhelming, a source of pain and deep shame.

And yet somehow, he can see that Sarah's correct. While his actions may have contributed in part to Wilson's heading over the edge, they didn't put him on the path. _It did start a long time ago, _he thinks. _Even before I first saw him walking around with that FedEx package tucked under his arm, all those years ago. _

"But in the end baby, long towards the end of your road/don't reach out for me babe, 'cause I'm not gonna carry your load." He hears the pain and regret in Sarah's voice, and the firmness too. "But I'll live on and I'll be strong/'cause it just ain't my cross to bear . . ."

_Johnny Winters, 'Mother Earth'_

_Allman Brothers Band, 'Midnight Rider'_

_Allman Brothers Band, 'Ain't My Cross To Bear'_

_**Look up the music at iTunes or YT, it's all great stuff. Many thanks for reading. If you are so inclined, please leave a review. It would really make my day.  
**_


	5. Chapter 5

**_(A/N: this is a short chapter, I know. My apologies. I've been down with a fibro flare for most of the weekend and didn't get much writing done. I hope to correct that deficiency by next Monday. If possible, check out the music listed-it's a great set of tunes, three of my all-time favorites. I'm a sixties garage band chick at heart, what can I say. Enjoy-B)_**

_January 22nd_

_10 a.m._

The first thing he hears upon waking is noise, distant but nonetheless present. Greg opens one eye, squints at the clock, slides an arm across the bed. Roz's side is empty, and the sheets are cool. She's been up for a while then, and apparently she's in the living room listening to what could be music, it's hard to tell. He sighs, scrubs a hand over his face, and begins the process of getting up.

Because he usually doesn't sleep with the TENS unit in place, it takes him some time to get moving in the mornings. He has to take his leg in both hands and put it where he wants it, then warm up the muscles with friction, which isn't nearly as sexy as it sounds. He rubs his palms together fast and hard until they heat up, then quickly applies them to the top and bottom of the big scar on his thigh. The warmth helps prevent any potential spasms caused by movement and also loosens what's left of his quadriceps so he can stand. Roz has begun to take over this task when she sleeps with him; she's very good at it, and often amenable to a diversion into other activities that both of them enjoy.

After persuading his body to move in semi-human fashion he limps slowly to his bedroom door, where now he can hear laughter interspersed with the music. It's Sarah and Roz. He stops before he goes into the living room and stands to one side where he's half-hidden in the shadows, observing.

The two of them are dancing to an old song by the Tremeloes—great beat and lyrics. _Written by Cat Stevens_, he thinks in total irrelevancy, but then that's how his mind works: factoids come popping up whether he wants them to or not. Anyway, the women are doing the twist and cracking each other up, it's a total girlfriend moment. Greg folds his arms and leans against the doorjamb, a reluctant smile twitching the corners of his mouth. Sarah's fair face is flushed, her carroty curls rioting everywhere, but she looks happy for the first time since they came back from Mayfield. She's singing with the music, shaking her moneymaker in an expert fashion and clapping, grooving in perfect time to the bouncy beat. Roz shimmys her slender backside, her sable hair swinging as she sways. She has on a pair of black leggings and a tee shirt over it, one of his of course—she's the worst woman he's ever known for stealing his clothes, but at least they look good on her. She and Sarah make a pretty picture in the big room, with a fire going and snow falling thick and fast outside the window, the interior illumination from lamps here and there adding a soft golden tint to the miserly trickle of flat cold light coming in from outside. Greg watches them and feels a peculiar ache deep inside. Since returning from Mayfield he's been remembering his stay there, and how ironic it is that his one-time best friend is now on the long-term ward, enduring the rigors of scheduled activities, daily medication and talk therapy. Just over a year ago he was as close with Wilson, or he thought he was, as Sarah and Roz are with each other now . . . but then he never thought he'd leave Princeton either, or find another love, and both have happened.

"Hey y'all!" Sarah calls over to him. "Come join the party!"

"Oh, get lost," he grouses, but before he can make a retreat Roz is guiding him carefully into the room. The music's switched to a new song—'Lies' by the Knickerbockers. Roz puts his hands on her hips.

"Just hold me," she says with a grin, and starts the twist once more. Greg lets his hands ride lightly on her so she can gyrate; she feels like dynamite packed in silk under his fingers. He is reminded of his glimpse of her in the store the year before, spin-dancing in ecstasy. She is in the same state now, he can tell, but she watches him as she moves, her eyes sparkling with humor and lust, a combination as explosive as his touch on her smooth skin. Sarah's doing the pony like a veteran go-go dancer; it's a wonder she hasn't expired from whiplash. Greg realizes he's actually enjoying this Hullabaloo-style moment. After the events of last week, a few minutes of innocent enjoyment is a treat. So is holding Roz. He watches her modest rack bounce and wonders if he can persuade her back into bed before he has to clean up for work . . .

The song switches again, and this time it's one he hasn't heard since he was seven—'Psychotic Reaction' by Count Five, one of the all-time great garage band songs. It's another one to add to the Flatliners list. Sarah's flailing away in perfect rhythm, Roz is giggling as she pogos in place with her hands on his shoulders.

"I just want a cup of coffee!" he shouts above the music. Both women start laughing, and the dance session is over.

"We're exercising," Sarah explains once she's turned the music down and got her breath back. "Can't go out to walk, so we might as well have some fun with the cardio part of the program."

"You're both out of your minds," he grumbles, but he cops a feel off Roz's hips before she slips her arms around him and gives him a kiss.

"Come on, breakfast is waiting," she says, smiling. "You can meditate with us before you go off to work."

"Better get your ice skates," he tells her. "Hell's gonna freeze over first."

"Well I never would have predicted you'd say that," Sarah says dryly, but she flashes him a grin and heads into the kitchen, shaking her hips to the music still playing. Roz kisses him again, her hands sliding over his back. She's warm, a little flushed from moving around, and her eyes are as green as a cat's.

"Wanna do some sheet dancing?" Greg asks her. She tilts her head.

"Jason's coming over shortly," she says, and smiles when Greg groans. "Hold that thought," and she brushes her lips over his, soft and slow.

"Older guy here," Greg says. "Holding that thought isn't as easy as it used to be."

"Get a room," Sarah calls from the kitchen, a laugh in her words.

"Damn kid," he mutters, which earns him another kiss.

"It'll be something to think about while you're at work," Roz says. "I could pick you up. We could spend the weekend at my place. Gene's coming home tonight, I bet he and Sarah would enjoy having the house to themselves."

"Scheming little wench," he says. "I like the way you think."

Sarah gives an ostentatiously phony stage cough. "Breakfast is ready, if you're done working up an appetite!"

"Jeez, _Mom_," he yells back. Roz chuckles, busses Greg's cheek and moves to his side. He puts an arm around her waist, and she does the same for him. Together they head for the kitchen, walking slow and easy as the snow falls outside in a lacy white curtain, soft and silent.

_'Here Comes My Baby', the Tremeloes_

_'Lies', the Knickerbockers_

_'Psychotic Reaction', Count V_

_**Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined please leave a review, it would really make my day. **  
_


	6. Chapter 6

**_(A/N: apologies for posting so late. I'm dealing with a lot of paperwork at the moment and trying to run errands in between storms as well as struggling with a bit of writer's block, and it's cutting into my writing time. I will do my best to get a midweek extra posted this week, and also have a bigger chapter to post next Monday. In the meantime, I will wish everyone who celebrates it a happy Imbolc and may Brighid bless your hearth with light and warmth and keep your household in good health through the year. Btw, the pronunciation of the name Brighid that I prefer is the ancient Celtic one, 'breed', not the Anglicized 'bridget'-just a factoid for your amusement. -Brighid45)_**

_February 1__st_

_9 a.m._

Sarah spread the seed catalogs out on the dining room table. Under the mellow light of the pull-down lamp, half a dozen brightly illustrated covers gleamed up at her. Where to start? She glanced at the list she and Gene had made over the weekend. _'Orange-glo' watermelons,_ she thought. _Gene really wants to try those this year._ She reached for the third catalog from the right and plunged in.

This was an annual rite she treasured. While snow fell thick and fast past the window and the wind moaned and sighed in the eaves, Sarah sipped her tea and dreamed of the garden to come in spring and summer. Crisp, thin-skinned radishes, the first tender leaves of lettuce, baby carrots and beets, fresh peas, crunchy and sweet; then snap beans and pickling cucumbers, onions and squash, and of course tomatoes as well as the watermelon they wanted to try. Melons were always an iffy proposition in this climate, with a much shorter growing season than required. Still, she'd had some luck the year before getting ripe muskmelons by using grow lights and a heat mat under the starter pots to give the seedlings an extra month, and portable cold frames Gene had made for her out of some old windows they'd found in the barn. With a little protection and care they might have fresh watermelon on the table by late August.

She was pulled out of her daydream by the ringtone of her cell phone. A quick glance at the caller ID made her pause, but only for a moment. When she answered she said softly, "Good morning, Jim."

He didn't reply right away. In the background she heard faint echoes of everyday life at Mayfield: the rattle of doors being opened and closed, voices, someone walking by in a soft whisper of crepe-soled nursing shoes.

"Why . . ." Jim said finally. His voice was rough, toneless. "Why am I here?"

"What do you remember?" Sarah asked. There was another silence, though she could feel him thinking about her question. In her mind's eye she saw him standing in the corner where the pay phone was tucked away, holding onto the receiver for dear life the way everyone always did—clinging to the lifeline to the outside world, an illusion of control, of normalcy. _Interesting that Nolan allowed him to call from there and not in the office, _she thought. _He's more likely to open up if he knows he doesn't have to say and do all the right things in front of someone._

"I—I—I don't know," Jim said. "I came home from work . . . it was just a day, nothing different . . ." He trailed off. Sarah waited, hoping there was more. "I made dinner . . . had a paper to work on. Had some bourbon . . ." Jim drew in a breath, let it out in a shuddering sigh. "There's a whole chunk of—of time missing after that—I—I don't know . . . when . . . when I . . ."

"What's the paper about?" Sarah asked when it was clear he wouldn't or couldn't go on.

"Uh—um, eu—euthanasia." Jim sounded offhand. Sarah felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

"What specifically about euthanasia?" she asked, careful to keep her tone casual.

"It's time . . . time someone admitted the truth." Jim sounded defensive. "We all do it, Sare. You know it. Don't tell me—"

"I'm not," she said quietly. "I guess what I don't understand is why you're writing a paper like this, Jim. It's career suicide. You know it is."

"Career suicide." He laughed, a grating sound. "That's all anyone can think about. No one gives a flying fuck about what's real, what's right."

"What's real?" Sarah asked. "Tell me."

"Don't you dare psycho-analyze me!"

"Sorry. Occupational hazard, but you _did_ call a shrink," Sarah said, taking a chance that he'd respond to a bit of humor. There was silence, and then a muffled snort that might have been a chuckle.

"Yeah," Jim said. "Okay." He hesitated. "You . . . you really want to know why?"

"Of course I do," Sarah said.

"We . . . we . . ." He sighed, obviously frustrated. "We live these—these lives that are supposed to mean something, make a difference, make us better. But they're just empty, Sare. There's nothing in them. We go through all the motions, we . . . act like what we do matters. But it doesn't. Nothing does. It's pointless."

"Why did you become a doctor?" Sarah asked.

"Oh, come on," Jim said in disgust. "Don't give me a bunch of crap about helping other people."

"I'm not," Sarah said. "I just asked a question. What's your answer?"

"I—I don't know!"

"Yes you do. You have a reason for everything you do, Jim. I know you." Sarah sat back, rubbing her scarred arm in an absent fashion. "What is it?"

She could hear him breathing, considering her question, formulating his answer. "Same as everyone else," he said.

"So what's everyone else's reason?"

"Jesus. You always were like a damn dog with a bone when you wanted to find out something." Jim sighed. "I don't know how House puts up with you analyzing him."

"We manage. Answer the question," Sarah said.

"Why does anyone do anything? It seemed like a good idea at the time," Jim said.

"Bullshit. You're way too anal to simply say 'hey, guess I'll be a doctor,'" Sarah said. "You had this planned from way back, I'm betting."

"Didn't we talk about this in college?" Jim said. He sounded slightly petulant now, like a thwarted five year old.

"Not that I remember." She said nothing more.

"You're sure?"

"Jim." She couldn't help but smile a little.

"Yeah, fine." He sighed. "I knew I wanted to be a doctor when my fifth grade teacher took us on a field trip to a hospital." He paused. "I saw all those people in white coats . . . they were important I guess, they took care of people—they—they—"

"Mattered," Sarah said gently.

"Got noticed." Jim's voice held bitterness. "Got noticed for something besides screwing up, saying the wrong thing, making mistakes. I wanted that. But now I know it was just a crock anyway. All people ever notice are the damn flaws, no matter how—how hard—"

"Do you remember how we met?" Sarah said when he didn't go on.

"What?" Jim sounded irritated. "Why does that have anything—"

"Humor me. Do you remember?"

"Uh . . . you . . . you were looking for your classroom and I helped you."

"Do you know what the first thing I thought about you was?" Sarah smiled and hoped he could hear it in her voice.

"Please tell me you took one look and couldn't wait to rip my clothes off," Jim said. There was a tiny thread of humor in his words. Sarah chuckled.

"That was my second thought. As I recall I acted on it later that week, too." She glanced out the window at the falling snow and saw instead a campus quad shaded by green trees, and an earnest young man with big brown eyes, a shock of thick dark hair and a fine set of dimples when he smiled. "But my first thought was, 'I like his voice'."

"My . . . my voice?" Jim sounded surprised. "Really?"

"Yes. It was warm and gentle, and it made me feel good. Still does," she said. "I knew I was going to like you, just from the way you talked to me."

"I was hitting on you," Jim said wryly. "In case you hadn't noticed."

"Oh, yeah. I knew that," Sarah said, her smile widening a bit. "I'd been there a week and had at least a dozen guys do their best to get into my pants. You were the first one who actually saw me . . ." She stopped, swallowed past the sudden lump in her throat. "You saw _me_," she said. "Skinny, redheaded, scarred, chip on my shoulder, and you smiled at me and said 'Can I help you?', and you meant it, even thought I knew you wanted to get into my pants too, though for the life of me I couldn't understand why. You were so fine, and I was just some hick from Oklahoma." She blinked on tears and sniffled a little.

"Dammit, you're crying," Jim said, sounding distressed. "I didn't—I didn't mean—"

"No, it's all right," Sarah said, "they're happy tears, babe." The endearment slipped out naturally. "I'm so glad we had each other then. You helped me heal. You were kind, you were gentle, and you did your best for me. You made a real difference."

"Thanks," Jim said after a long silence. He sounded uncertain, but there was a slight note of something that might be hope there, one glimmer amid the confusion and darkness.

"Love is never gone/as we travel on/love's what we'll remember," Sarah sang softly, and smiled as Jim exhaled a slow breath.

"I got so sick of that song," he said, and she heard the smile in his voice now. "Figures you'd quote it now."

"Hey, I'm not the one who bought those tickets for _Phantom_ and had to eat ramen noodles for the rest of the semester," Sarah said. She wiped her eyes.

"I . . . I have to go." Jim cleared his throat. "Can I—can I call you again soon?"

"Call me anytime. I'm here." Sarah closed her eyes. "Work with Doctor Nolan, he's one of the best healers around." She stopped, went on. "Know that I love you, because you showed me how."

"Thanks. Love you too, Sare." And he was gone. Sarah ended the call, put the phone on the table and buried her face in her hands.

"Wow, who knew choosing between petunias and portulacas was so traumatizing?"

Sarah heard Greg's voice from somewhere to her left. She got to her feet, turned and went blindly in his direction.

"Hey." He tensed when she put her arms around him and pressed her face to his chest. "What's wrong? Wilson—he's all right?"

"He's f-fine," she said, struggling not to give in and howl.

"Well what the hell's the problem then?" His arms came up to hold her in a tentative embrace.

"Nothing," Sarah said into his shirt. "I just—I just . . ." She sighed.

"He called here? He upset you?" Greg sounded angry now.

"No . . ." She drew in a shuddering breath. "I just wish he was still the young guy I knew back in school. Something went so wrong for him over the years. He deserves joy, and real love."

"He's where he needs to be," Greg said. "Come on, you know that. Hell, you preached it at me the whole time I was in that rathole. Don't tell me it was all a lie or I'll sue for wrongful prosecution." He gave her a little hug and set her back from him, but kept his hands on her arms, his touch gentle. "Stop it. You're getting my bathrobe all wet with this hideously maudlin display. I'm disgusted by your mawkishness."

Sarah laughed. "Yeah, okay." She let go to wipe her eyes. "Sorry."

"You can make it up to me by cooking breakfast," Greg said, and smirked at her. His eyes held worry though, and Sarah felt a fresh wave of guilt. "Bacon fixes everything."

"I'll remember that the next time Minnie has a flat tire," Sarah said. Greg snorted.

"Nice. Come on, get busy woman. I have to work today."

"I hope you don't treat your girlfriend this way," Sarah said, but she went into the kitchen and washed her face with a wet paper towel, then put the skillet on to heat and set about losing herself in the routine of an everyday task, refusing to think about anything else.

_7:30 p.m._

The house is dark, even the fireplace is cold. Three knocks sound at the door.

"This is so corny," Greg grumbles. "It's as ridiculous as going to church." Roz puts her hand on his arm.

"Shush. It's fun."

"Whatever," he says, but subsides as Gene comes forward.

"Who is at the door?" he calls out, smiling.

"It is I, Brighid, Lady of Fire," Sarah says from the other side of the door. "It's cold as hell out here, hurry up!"

Gene smothers a laugh. "Brighid, Brighid, come in, come in! Welcome to our home, a thousand times welcome," he says, and opens the door. Sarah comes in, stomping her feet. She is covered with snowflakes, a glistening, transitory robe of white. In her hands she holds a hurricane lantern with flame flickering inside. She carries it into the living room and goes to the fireplace.

"Brighid bless this hearth with light and warmth," she says, and begins the ritual to start the fire. As she kneels on the stones, her bright auburn curls running riot over her shoulders, Greg sees her foremothers enacting this ritual, passed from mother to daughter in a nearly unbroken line, stretching back to the earliest days when fire was a precious commodity to be guarded and cared for. If ever there was a living embodiment of the fire of the hearth it is Sarah. Her small, capable hands coax the flame into growing. Soon the kindling is alight, and then the logs. She replaces the firescreen and stands.

They go into each room of the house and Sarah-as-Brighid blesses them, her pale face illuminated by the glow of the lantern light. They end up in the kitchen last of all, where the oven is given a token relighting, and then dinner is served while traditional Irish music plays in the background. The food is earthy peasant fare-colcannon, that delicious mix of sauteed onions, cabbage and bacon in mashed potatoes with butter melting in pools; lamb shanks baked in the oven with turnips and carrots; fresh soda bread with butter and honey; apple cobbler with coarse sugar and cinnamon sprinkled over the top; and pints of Guinness to wash everything down.

After the dinner Gene and Sarah settle in to make some music. It's pleasant to sit in the quiet living room and watch them sing and play by the light of the fire. It's another ritual that's been handed down, this holding at bay the bitter cold and snow of winter with song and sweet sounds. Greg sits in the circle of light with Roz at his side, curled up against him, her head on his chest and an arm about his waist. Soon enough morning will come and they'll be clearing the drive and sweeping the roof, but for tonight they can relax and enjoy the warmth and light of their home and the bonds of attachment that bring healing and joy.

_'What I Did For Love,' A Chorus Line_

_**Many thanks for reading. If you are so inclined, please leave a review on your way out. It would really make my day. **  
_


	7. Chapter 7

**_(A/N: okay, MAJOR, MAJOR FLUFF WARNING. Don't say I didn't tell you. Hehheh. -B)_**

_February 4__th_

_10 p.m._

"I think I found a place. You know, for you to look at. For your practice."

Roz felt Greg shift a little as he turned on his good side to look at her. The bedroom was dark now, both of them having finished their nightly rituals of washing up, taking meds and climbing into her big bed; Hellboy was curled up at the foot in the folds of her flannel bathrobe, his nose hidden under his tail.

"Seriously?" Greg reached out and slipped his arm around her waist, drew her closer. "Where?"

She scooted over, happy to oblige him. Usually she let him take the initiative in touching or intimacy, though now and then she liked to be the first to show her feelings. "It's just on the other side of town, the old Widmeyer place."

"Oh, the old Widmeyer place, of course," he said with mock solemnity. Roz gave his shoulder a light smack.

"Shut up. It's a nice building. Everything's on one floor, and there's plenty of room if you want to expand. The structure looks like it's in good shape. I can call a friend of mine who does inspections, if you're interested." She snuggled in, enjoying the warmth of his body.

"You keep wriggling around like that and I won't be responsible for the consequences," Greg said in a warning tone. Roz lifted her head and stole a kiss. His lips were chapped but warm, and she liked the little intake of breath that told her she'd pleasantly surprised him. Then he was kissing her back, and when he put his mind to it Greg could be a spectacular kisser. By the end she was melting, her hands roaming all over him.

"I don't know why we bother to wear anything to bed when we just end up taking it all off," he joked, slipping his hands inside her thermal top. He cupped her breasts and bent his head to suckle her nipples through the soft fabric. Roz sighed and held him in place, her fingers sliding through his hair.

"You need to see Gordy," she said, tugging gently on a curl.

"Don't pull too hard, not much left," he said against her breast. Roz chuckled.

"You've got plenty left." She stroked the bald spot on top of his head and kissed it. "I bet you had a hell of a time with all those curls when you were a kid."

"Nope. Dad made me wear a buzz cut." He lifted her shirt and she gasped softly as the colder room air hit her wet nipples. "Oooh, look! Someone's got two cute little goosebumps."

"Smartass." She reached down and pinched the section of his anatomy related to her epithet. Greg gave an evil chuckle.

"Sexual harassment. I like it," he said, and rubbed his thumbs over her nipples while he kissed her.

Soon enough she was riding him, moving slow and easy. He held her hips as he watched her, those blue eyes fierce and tender at the same time. His hands slid up her sides, gliding over her skin to cup her breasts once more. Roz covered his hands with hers, brought first one and then the other to her lips, kissing the lean, strong fingers. He closed his eyes as she suckled his fingertips, her tongue stroking the calluses there. When her climax came it was a wave of deep sweetness washing over her as she felt him tense and release, his soft groan of pleasure as delicious as the orgasm he'd given her.

It was as they were settling in for the night that she thought _I'm going to miss this._

"You're what?" Greg went still. Roz opened her eyes. Had she spoken out loud? Apparently so. Greg rolled on his side facing her, frowning.

"Well?" he demanded when she didn't answer. "What the hell did you mean by that?"

Roz felt dread fill her. _Might as well say it now and get it over with, dammit. _"I was thinking today while I was looking around the Widmeyer place . . ."

"Always dangerous, thinking." Greg did not sound amused.

"Let me just say it," she said a little more sharply than she'd intended, and he fell silent. "I was thinking—when you open your practice, you're going to need someone . . ." There was no other way; she had to go on. "Suitable," she finished, and waited for the reply. It wasn't long in coming.

"Suitable." His tone dripped sarcasm. "And what exactly is that supposed to mean, as if I didn't know?"

"I . . . I'm not the kind of—of partner for someone who's going to be running a world-famous practice," Roz said. She was knotted up with tension now, not looking at Greg. "I'm just a small-town girl, you know? I crawl around in dirty basements and fix peoples wiring. I wear a jumpsuit and old boots and I've—I've got scars." She hesitated. "You need someone—with . . . with class. Someone—"

"I won't be ashamed of," Greg said, his tone scathing. Roz flinched.

"Yes," she said, defiant now. "Exactly."

"Oh, I don't agree with that conclusion at all," he said, still in that cold hard tone. "It's pretty clear you don't comprehend jack _shit_."

"So enlighten me," Roz snapped. She was trembling now.

"If you really think I'd use you while things get set up and then screw you over by bringing in some trophy bimbo at the end, guess I should go ahead and do it. What do you think? A blonde with big boobs, plenty of ass, ten fingers and no brains at all? No wait, I already have that last one apparently."

Roz felt the hurt stab at her. She pushed it aside, knowing she'd asked for it by starting this whole conversation. "I'm telling you the truth and you know it. You won't have me around when you've got important people—"

"Stop it!" He grabbed her arms, then gentled his grip. "Stop," he said, lowering his voice. There was desperation in it now. "I don't care about _any_ of that. You—" He began to slide his hands up and down her arms, a rough, shaking caress. "You're it for me," he said. "I don't want anyone else. I don't care about what you do for a living or where you come from or your battle scars, none of that matters. That's just-just window dressing for idiots who don't know what's real."

"So . . . so what's real?" she asked, afraid to look at him. He made a sound between a groan and a sigh and pulled her close.

"_This_ is, dammit," he said, and kissed her. By the end they were clinging to each other like shipwreck survivors, pressed close enough to be one entity. Roz put her hand to his face and caressed his cheek, felt him exhale a long, unsteady breath.

"Moron," he said, and kissed her forehead. It was the closest thing she'd get to an endearment at this point, but it was good enough. She put her face in the join of his neck and shoulder, trying to hide her tears.

"Hey," he backed up a bit and peered at her. "Jesus—what is it with women lately? Are you all cycling together or something? First Sarah and then one of the nurses from hell at work, and now this."

"I'm sorry," she whispered. Greg gave a forceful sigh and brought her close again.

"You're done coming up with stupid ideas? Because I'd rather sleep than listen to this shit," he said. Roz gave a watery snort and snuggled closer.

"I'm done," she said, "_Ti amo_," and kissed his chest, above his heart. His hand stroked her back.

"Marry me," he said after a brief silence. Roz's heart jumped against her ribs.

"Wh-_what?_" she squeaked.

"You heard me," he said gruffly. His lips brushed her temple.

"Don't," she said when she got her breath back. "Don't say that if you're just—just—settling-"

"Oh, for chrissake! Would you get over your goddamn idiotic inferiority complex? I'm not _settling_. No one's ever wanted me, I'm just an old used-up gimp, and even when I was younger I wasn't anyone's prize. You're the first—the only one who ever . . ." He hesitated. "I've never asked anyone before. Not even Wilson," he said on the ghost of a chuckle. Roz raised her head to look at him. In the soft semi-gloom he was watching her steadily. She saw hope and fear in those brilliant blue eyes and something else, a light that made her heart lift. Slowly she sat up, took his hands in hers.

"Really?" she asked. He swallowed but didn't look away.

"Yup."

"Then I say yes," she said without hesitation, and knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that it was the best thing she would ever do in her life. Greg didn't smile, but his hands tightened on hers.

"The electrician chick says yes," he said, and there was joy there, well hidden but plain as day to her. "Cool."

_February 5__th_

_6 p.m._

"I asked Roz to marry me. She said yes," Greg says when he walks into the kitchen. Jason is sitting at the dining room table frowning at some homework; Sarah is still wrapped in her apron, stacking dishes for use at supper. She turns toward him with a plate in her hand. For a moment she stands there. Then she puts the plate down and comes to him. When she is close enough he can see she has tears in her eyes, but she's smiling.

"Oh, Greg," she says.

"Don't start," he warns, but she just envelops him in a fierce hug anyway. He rolls his eyes, not willing to admit it still feels good to be held in her embrace and know she's proud of and happy for him.

"I'm so _glad_," she says softly, and something in him relaxes a little. He knew she wouldn't object, but her approval means far more to him than he cares to say. "You'll be such a wonderful couple, and so good for each other."

"_Jeez_, Mom," he groans, though his heart really isn't in it. Sarah laughs and gives him a little squeeze before she eases back, though she doesn't let go.

"So when's the day?"

"Don't know, don't care," he says, smirking down at her. "You can figure that part out with her. All I need is the girl, the monkey suit, the rings and the judge."

Sarah smiles and leans up to kiss his cheek. "And the license, and the cake, and the hall, and the guests . . ."

"No no no! I refuse to listen!" he says. "You will not frighten me with your depraved talk of guests and cake!"

Sarah's laugh rings out through the warm, fragrant kitchen. He closes his eyes for a moment, basking in her delight. "Fine," she says, "we'll take care of the girly stuff. Just get her a nice engagement ring when you pick out the wedding bands."

"Yeah," he says in a considering tone. "A chunk of rock so big it'll throw rainbows around the room and blind everyone in a five-mile radius. I like the sound of that."

"Exactly. I bet she will too." Sarah beams up at him before she pats his back and lets him go. "Well done, son." She tilts her head. "How soon do you want this to happen?"

"Tomorrow," he says, "but she wants the whole megillah, so . . . a week."

"More like two months. And _not_ All Fool's Day," she warns, grinning. "Okay, an April wedding. I'll talk with Roz, we'll work it out." She gives him one last stealth hug, then claps her hands and jumps up and down like a little girl. "I know! You can get married here! That would be so awesome! I'm calling Roz right now." She stops. "Is it okay if I tell Gene?"

"Oh, good grief," Greg groans. "Blab to the whole damn village and get it out of your system already, woman." He watches her scurry off to the phone and shrugs out of his coat. When he turns he finds Jason watching him, an expression of bewilderment plastered over his young features. Over the last couple of weeks he and the rug rat have gotten a little more used to each other, but haven't really spoken much. "What?" he says. Jason shrugs.

"Nothin'," he says, fidgeting with his pen. Then he blurts out "Doctor Goldman likes you."

"And you find that incomprehensible," Greg says, amused. Jason doesn't look at him.

"She's married," he says.

"I know that," Greg says. "You think I'm hitting on her?" Jason shrugs again. "Trust me, kid. Messing with married people is not worth the effort." He thinks of Stacy and feels a distant pain, but the sharp edges of the memories are blunted, fading.

"You have a girlfriend?" Jason looks up at him. Greg nods.

"Yeah, obviously. Got a problem with that?"

"No." The kid looks at the floor. "What's it like?"

"What's what like?"

"Having a girl." Jason mumbles it. Greg scowls at him.

"Get your own and find out," he says, and turns away to hang up his coat by the mudroom door. When he comes back into the kitchen Jason is still watching him.

"I don't mess with girls," he says. "Besides, they all hate me."

"I am not having this conversation with you," Greg says.

"Am I gay or something?" Jason's face is scarlet now. "You're a doctor, you'd know."

Greg surveys him for a moment, torn between amusement and scorn. "You're not gay. You're just twelve." He decides to take pity on the kid. "It gets better," he says quietly. "Now quit stalling and get to work. You've got a chemistry lab report to go over later."

With reluctance Jason turns back to his books. Greg checks the oven and the pots on the stove, half-listening to NPR news on the radio, hears Sarah laughing in the office as she talks to Roz. As he stands there it strikes him that this is what he really wanted, all those evenings down through the years when he drank himself into a half-stupor or paid a hooker just to spend time with him. He feels a warmth deep inside that he attributes to standing too close to the oven, and stirs the beef stew before he takes a taste and adds some black pepper, looking out the window at the darkness and smiling just a little.

"We're having it here," Sarah says when they all sit down to supper. "Roz says she wants it simple and small. Poppi Lou will do the catering and the bakery's going to do the cake. Gene and I will take care of the reception. You just need to get the rings, the license and decide on a honeymoon."

"Rick's making the cake? I'm not touching it. He'll poison a slice and make sure I get it," Greg says. Sarah gives him a wry look.

"He's accepted the situation," she says. "I happen to know for a fact he's been dating someone else for a couple of months now, so you're safe."

"Says you." Greg pauses with the spoon halfway to his mouth. "Honeymoon," he says, struck by the thought. "_Shit_."

"Language," Sarah says mildly. "Have an idea where she'd like to go?"

"Not a clue." He puts the spoon back in the bowl. "Throw me a bone here, I'm sure she's confided something to you in one of your sickening girlfests."

"Well, she did tell me once she's always wanted to go to Tuscany," Sarah says, her sea-green eyes twinkling.

"Where's Tuscany?" Jason asks. He takes another biscuit from the basket and eats half of it in one bite.

"Italy. We can look it up after dinner," Sarah says. Greg puts a hand over his eyes for a moment.

"What the hell, we can't just get pizza at her grandpa's place? Jesus."

"_Language._ You don't fool me," Sarah says. She is positively radiating light, she's so happy. "You'd love to take her to some little villa in the hills and live off wine and pasta and shag each other silly."

"_Language_," Greg says in an admonishing tone, just to see Jason glare at him. "She doesn't have a passport."

"Yes she does. Ask her." Sarah sops up some gravy with her biscuit. "Florence, espresso, vineyards, and Roz. What's not to like?"

He considers it. "I'll ask," he says, and feels that warmth within once more. "You really think-?"

"She'd love to go anywhere with you," Sarah says, smiling. "So give her something special. You'll remember it too, and then you can both tell great lies about everything you did in Italy."

"Hah," Greg says, but it's the right thing to do, he knows it is. "We'll see." His cell phone rings and he takes the call at the table, smirking just a little. "Hey," he says.

"Hey, _amante_," Roz says. She sounds a little tired but happy too. "How are you? How was your day?"

"Sucketh and sucketh more," he says, but he doesn't mean it and what's more, he knows she knows it. "You did too much, didn't you?"

"A little. I need a treat and you're the best thing on my list. Wanna come over later and fool around?"

"Yup," he says, and waggles his brows at Sarah, who shakes her head.

"Second thoughts?" Roz's soft voice holds no doubts. Greg smiles.

"Nope. You?"

"Nope." She doesn't hesitate, just as she didn't when she accepted his offer. He feels a swell of what might just be pride and love all mashed together in a horrible sweet pap fit only for feeding babies, but what the hell. He's lived on bitterness and misery for years. Time for a change.

"See you shortly," he says. "Remember how you earned your title, oh Cotton Temptress." He ends the call on her laughter and reaches for another biscuit. It might all change tomorrow and everything they've decided could come crashing down around their ears, but in this moment, he is whole and it's a good thing to be, just this once.

_8:00 p.m._

Sarah came tinto the living room and put a book by Jason's right hand. He looked up at her from his video game, his dark eyes startled.

"If you'd like to learn more about Tuscany, this is a good place to start," she said with a smile, and sat down next to him. Jason glanced at the book.

"_Under The Tuscan Sun,_" he said aloud.

"It's about a couple who buy a house in Italy and fix it up," Sarah said. "Through their experiences you get to see what it's like to live there."

"I asked House what it was like to have a girlfriend and he told he to get one of my own and find out." Jason sounded angry. "If I could do that I wouldn't have asked."

"I've had boyfriends," Sarah said. "It's kinda nice. It works best if you're friends first."

"You and Doctor Goldman did that?"

Sarah smiled. "Well, we pushed things a little but yes, we're best friends. I like him. He's pretty cool."

"And House feels that way about his girlfriend?" Jason peered at her. Sarah nodded.

"I think so, yes."

After a moment Jason picked up the book. "When do you want it back?"

"If you read it and you like it, it's yours," she said. Jason gave her a startled look.

"Mine?"

"Sure." She got to her feet. "Time to head for home."

They were halfway to Bob's house when Jason said "You have scars on your arm."

"Yes." Sarah stepped around a drift.

"Did-did Doctor Goldman do that to you?" It was a carefully worded question, but Sarah heard the confusion and hidden fear very clearly.

"No," she said. "I did some of it to myself. Someone else did the rest."

"You cut yourself? Why?"

"I wanted the pain inside to stop. It just made things worse," she said quietly. "Growing up was tough, but I made it. You will too, Jason. You'll see."

When they reached Bob's doorstep Jason turned to her. "Thank you for the book," he said.

"You're more than welcome," Sarah said, smiling. "Sleep well. If you need anything, call. I'll see you tomorrow afternoon after school, right?"

"Yeah." Jason hesitated, then opened the door and went inside, where Bob was waiting. Sarah watched him go. _Two boys both finding their paths,_ she thought. _And it's my privilege to watch them and help out now and then. Life's pretty good sometimes. _She exhaled a frosty breath and turned for home.

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, please leave a review. It would really make my day. _**


	8. Chapter 8

**_(A/N: to forestall any outcry over the guys corrupting Jason, I will say just this: having two older brothers made me wise early on in the ways of boys, and some fifty years later, nothing has changed as far as I can see. -B)_**

_February 4th_

_7:30 p.m._

"I understand congratulations are in order." Singh gives Greg a smile, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement as he adjusts the hi-hats. "You've decided to join the legion of the damned."

Greg plugs in his keyboard and turns it on, switching to organ. "I'm not joining anything except my private parts to Roz's as many times as possible before I die of liver failure or she explodes, whichever comes first."

"I think we have an obligation to provide the prospective groom with a last glimpse of the freedom he's giving up," Gene says. "Otherwise known as a bachelor's party."

Singh nods. "It's a requirement. We all have to shoot pool, play poker, get drunk and do something really stupid."

"Oh, you mean like a Saturday night," Jay said.

"There speaks a single man," Gene says.

"You really think I'll be left intact if my wife-to-be finds out I've been stuffing money in some stripper's panties and drinking enough Maker's Mark to float a battleship?" Greg sets the volume and moves the chair a little closer. "Not that I care, but I'd rather do something besides hold onto my balls for the next three months."

Gene plays the opening guitar riff from 'I Ran' by Flock of Seagulls, giving Greg a smirk. Greg sneers at him, amused.

"Nice." He connects his guitar to the amp and sets it by his seat. "I bet you felt up all the boys at your sixth grade mixer dancing to that crap."

"You're just jealous of the haircut," Jay laughs.

"He's just jealous of the hair," Singh says. "Me too."

"And I ran, I ran so far away," Gene sings, grinning. Singh starts the drum backbeat and Jay takes the bass line. Greg rolls his eyes. He picks up his guitar, cranks up the volume and rams the chords from Black Flag's 'Nervous Breakdown' into their pretty melody. Gene laughs and to Greg's surprise, starts growling the lyrics, with Jay thumping out the three-note underpinning and Singh slamming the drums behind them. They play all two minutes of it and stop on a raggedy-ass ending, cracking up.

"Yeah, that's a keeper for Valentine's Day," Gene says, and takes a long slug of beer.

"You're both too young to remember Black Flag," Greg chides them. "I was slam dancing at some little underground place in Baltimore when you were just a gleam in your dad's testicles."

"I have older brothers," Gene reminds him. "I don't know what Singh and Jay's excuses are, but that one's mine. I inherited all their vinyl when they enlisted." He sits back. "Circle Jerks did it better."

"Bullshit. Always go with the original." Greg looks at Jay. "You know the Dead Kennedys?"

"Old school," Jay says with satisfaction. "Damn straight." He hits the opening bass riff for 'A Child and His Lawnmower' and they're off again, with Gene doing vocals once more. Halfway through Greg sees Sarah come in and stand by the door, a look of longsuffering resignation on her face. He smacks the chords a little harder just to see her wince and smiles as she sticks her tongue out at him. When they're finished she gives them a time-out sign. Greg sees then she has Jason in her wake. He looks apprehensive, his thin shoulders hunched under his coat, watching them all with apprehension.

"I'm just here to ask you not to come into the house for another couple of hours," Sarah is saying. "Roz and I are working on something. Oh, and don't corrupt Jason. That's it, I'm gone." She says something to the kid in a low voice. He nods his head and glances at them again as she leaves.

"Ooohh, secret wedding plans," Jay says in a sweet falsetto. "That's so _awesome!_"

Greg gives him a hard stare. "You gonna play or jerk off?" he says.

"First we get Jason settled," Gene says, and flashes the kid a smile. "Come on in, dude. Hang up your coat and make yourself comfortable. There's a Coke in the fridge if you want one."

"Jason," Jay says, nodding.

"Hey Jason," Singh says. The kid advances into the room, removing his parka and gloves to stand by the woodstove. He looks a little more relaxed now but still uncertain.

"Cube fridge is back there," Gene says, pointing at the back of the stage. "Dump your stuff and grab a seat." He waits until Jason gets a soda, then says "So what are they doing back at the house? Is it really wedding plans after all?"

"Yeah, what's so important they kicked us all out?" Jay asks. Jason opens the Coke.

"I dunno," he says.

"Let me guess," Singh says. "They were sitting in the living room with glasses of wine, magazines spread all over the place and talking a mile a minute."

Jason nods. "Yeah. They were looking at pictures."

Singh laughs. "They're shopping for the wedding dress. Once they find the right one they'll plan the rest of the wedding around it." He shrugs when the others look at him. "Hey, I've been through this already with my oldest. You'll see, I'm right."

"But it's two months away," Jay says in bewilderment.

"Weddings take a lot of work," Singh says. Greg catches a look on Gene's face, just a moment of sadness before he turns his attention to Jason.

"So do you have some new songs for us yet, dude?"

Jason shoots him an apprehensive look. "Maybe a few."

"Cool. New tunes," Gene says. "How about we start off with something on the list for the party first? We need a little more warming up."

"Let's do some Elvis," Singh says. Greg catches Jason rolling his eyes and can't help a surge of amusement. "One two three four . . ."

They launch into 'Pump It Up' and Greg sees Jason literally stop in his tracks as he's taking a swallow of soda. After a moment he sits down and listens as they play.

"I've been on tenterhooks/ending in dirty looks/listenin' to the Muzak/thinkin' 'bout this 'n that," Gene sings, "She said that's that/I don't wanna chitter-chat/turn it down a little bit/or turn it down flat . . ."

Greg and Singh come in on the chorus loud and enthusiastic: "PUMP IT UP when you don't really need it/PUMP IT UP until you can feel it!"

The barn is jumping on its foundation. Jason's eyes are wide, but his feet are tapping in time with the hard beat, his head nodding. Gene flashes Greg an evil grin. _Another convert, _he's saying. "She's been a bad girl/she's like a chemical/though you try to stop it/she's like a narcotic/you wanna torture her/ you wanna talk to her/all the things you bought for her/puttin' up your temperature," he sings, the very soul of adolescent angst. Greg can just see him standing on a bed playing air guitar in a room shared with four other brothers, pinups, concert posters and car calendars on the walls and jockstraps dumped in the dirty laundry. He feels a little twinge of envy but pushes it away, knowing Gene was once close with his siblings and now he isn't. _No one can screw you over like family_, he thinks.

They extend the end just a little, wailing away until Greg gives the sign and they end it. As everyone sits back Gene says "You like that?"

The kid clutches the bottle like it's a lifeline. "_Yeah_," he says, sounding a little surprised. "You said Elvis, but that wasn't anything like what he used to play." Gene grins at him.

"Cool," he says. "I was just about your age the first time I heard Elvis Costello and the Attractions. I wore out the record."

"You listened to it on vinyl?" Jason is obviously impressed.

"Old style, junior," Greg says. "Back when we rode dinosaurs to school." He gives Jason a considering look. "Let's hear whatcha got in the way of tunes."

The kid goes to his coat and pulls his iPod and a couple of little speakers out of the pocket.

"You really want to hear what I found?" he asks. Greg remembers himself at twelve—sullen, confused, bewildered by grownup behavior, struggling to find his place in the order of things and not succeeding.

"Yeah," Singh says, smiling. "The only new music I get to hear is what my girls bring home and there's no way we're playing Justin Bieber."

There are groans all around. "Give us what you have, dude," Jay says.

"Okay." Jason sets it up. "This is The Blue Van," he says, and hits play.

After a couple of songs it becomes clear the kid's got an ear for a catchy hook and competent musicians. Maybe some of his stuff is a little twinkie, but he _is_ twelve after all.

"Good tunes," Gene says when they've listened to it all. "I think we could add a couple songs. I liked that first one, it kicks butt. What do you think, guys?"

"Let's do it," Singh says, and Jay makes a noise of agreement. Greg gives a slight shrug.

"Do you sing harmony?" Gene asks Jason, who looks startled.

"Um—I guess."

"Either you do or you don't," Greg says. Jason hunches his shoulders and throws him a glare.

"Yeah, I do," he says. Gene nods.

"Good. After we work out the chart you can teach me the words and do the vocal backup with me. You up for that?"

The kid hesitates. "Okay."

They listen to the song a couple of times to nail the chord changes and the lyrics, which Gene jots down with a little help from Jason. Singh works out the beat, the rolls and fills; Jay lays down the bass; Gene gets the rhythm guitar; Greg pulls the organ riffs. They listen to the song again, then they try it themselves. It takes a few run-throughs to get some of the passages worked out, but they have it eventually.

"We're ready," Gene says. "Have you ever sung with a band before?" Jason shakes his head and looks nervous. "That's cool. This won't sound exactly like the cut on iTunes, okay? Playing live is different than a nice cleaned-up studio track. Just keep an eye on us while you're singing. We'll help you know when to start."

He misses the first cue, but the second time he comes in on time with Gene. After the third run-through he's got it. They sound good. Jason is jazzed by this, Greg can tell. He's lost that wary look, and his eyes shine with excitement.

"We'll have to ask Bob and Sarah if it's okay first, but it would be great if you'd sing this with us at the Valentine's Day gig at the fire hall," Gene says. He sounds relaxed, casual. "If they say yes would you be interested?"

"You want _me_ to sing this?" Jason takes a swig of Coke. "I—I guess . . . yeah, I'd like to."

"Excellent," Singh says. "This is gonna greatly enhance our reputation. Thanks for helping out, Jason."

The kid ducks his head but he's pleased by the compliment, it's obvious. Gene glances at his watch.

"Time to head for home," he says. "I'll take you over."

Jason rolls his eyes. "I can walk by myself," he says.

"Yeah, I know you can," Gene says, still casual. "The probation agreement says someone walks you back and forth for the first six months. If you can show us we don't have to do this, you'll be walking on your own after that."

Jason thinks about it. Greg's interest sharpens. The kid doesn't just react; he's choosing his actions. It's a sign that Greg's initial assessment is accurate—he's worth working with.

"Okay," Jason says finally, and goes to get his coat. Gene unslings the guitar.

"Back in ten," he says.

"I got an idea," Jay says. He sets the bass aside and shrugs on his coat. "Let's take the ATV down. Wanna ride, Jason?"

"Yeah!" the kid says, obviously excited.

"I say we scare the girls first," Gene says, and flashes his pirate grin.

So five minutes later they've parked the ATV in the back and are sneaking up to the living room windows, doing their best to be quiet. The falling snow muffles the stealthy crunch of them struggling through the drifts. They get close, making sure they're out of the light. Through the glass they can see Roz and Sarah sitting on the couch, a good fire going in the fireplace; they are indeed drinking wine and looking through a stack of magazines, talking and laughing. They've got music on, Faith Hill or some other frou-frou noise, and there's a box of chocolates on the coffee table.

"Girls," Jay snickers, and gets reciprocating quiet chuckles from the men.

"Here we go," Gene whispers. "One, two . . . three."

They thump the walls, they yell and growl and howl and press their faces to the glass. The results are deeply satisfying for about five seconds. The women jump up in a panic. Then Sarah yells "GET 'EM!" and they come piling out the front door. The battle's on. Snowballs fly back and forth; Greg is pelted by several at once, a statistical impossibility unless a couple of people from his side turned traitor or have really bad aim. He ducks behind a tree trunk and hurls a missile at Roz. She avoids it and laughs at him, her dark hair swinging around her face as she retaliates with a wicked zinger that explodes against his arm, showering him with chunks of snow.

"We'll get you for this!" she threatens, "we'll make you wear cummerbunds and frilly shirts and white shoes!"

"Holy shit!" Gene shouts. "Run for it guys!" They take off for the ATV, slipping and sliding all over the place, still being pelted with snow and taunts from the women on the porch. They clamber on the vehicle and take off, out of breath and laughing. Jason's giggling—the first time Greg has ever heard him make anything close to a happy sound.

"Man that was a close call," Singh says as they head down the lane. He wipes melted snow from his face. "Frilly shirts, dear god. I haven't worn one since my senior prom."

"You actually went to your prom?" Greg says. "Loser."

"I was blackmailed!" Singh protests, and gets pummeled as Gene laughs and guns it, making the ATV bounce all over the rutted track.

When they get to Bob's place he opens the door and surveys them, fighting a smile.

"Buncha characters," he says, shaking his head. "Coulda heard ya two counties away, carryin' on." He watches Jason hop down and come inside.

"Don't forget, you're both coming over Sunday for the Superbowl pregame supper," Gene says. Bob nods his head.

"We'll be there," he says. Jason turns to look at them all.

"'night," he says, and offers a small smile—another first. They give their goodnights in return and head back to the barn, careful to take the back lane in case the women are lying in wait for them.

[H] [H] [H]

"Now, where were we?" Sarah settled on the couch once more. Roz resumed her spot on the floor, picked up her glass of wine and sipped it. She saw Greg in her mind's eye, grinning as he hurled a snowball at her—such a rare sight, seeing him openly happy. She hugged the moment to herself, then tucked it away to take out later and delight in.

"I think it should be an evening wedding," she said slowly, and slid down a bit to lean against Sarah's legs. "A whole day would be too much, I think."

"That's a good idea," Sarah said, and Roz knows she understands the unspoken part of that sentence. "It would free up your color choices too. I know you're not all that fond of pastels."

Roz picked up one of the bridal magazines and put it back down. "I don't want to wear white, Sare. It seems silly, thinking of me in something like that. I never wanted—I mean, I like a pretty dress, but not if it makes me look like a five-tier cake on two legs." She sighed and rested her cheek against Sarah's knee. "Is there something wrong with me?"

"Not at all," Sarah reassured her. "What color would you like? It's a spring wedding—how about green?"

"A green wedding dress?" Roz thought about it. "Do they even make those?"

"You could look at evening gowns instead," Sarah said. She stroked Roz's head, moving a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Why don't we take a trip to New York City next weekend? I know some great shops. We could stay over, do a play or a movie or something. What do you think?"

"New York?" Roz sat up. "Really? I was thinking Kris could make my dress."

"She's an excellent seamstress, but let's splurge a little. We can have her go with us for fashion advice, she's got great taste. It'll be a girls weekend out. We haven't done one of those in a long time."

"Okay. Yeah, okay." Roz felt a surge of happy anticipation. "I'd like that, thanks." She hesitated. "You'll be my matron of honor, right?"

"Of course." Sarah put a hand on her shoulder, rubbed it gently. "I'd love to stand with you. Thank you for asking me, sis."

_10:30 p.m._

Roz was almost asleep when she heard the bedroom door open. She sat up a little as Greg came in. He was limping a little more than usual, his features etched with tiredness. _He did too much today,_ she thought, and moved the bedclothes aside so he could get in. He sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders slumped a bit; his right was higher than his left, a sure sign he was hurting.

"Want a massage?" she asked softly. He didn't respond at first. Then he nodded. Roz warmed her hands with a few breaths, then gently placed them on his upper arm and above his clavicle.

"What did you do today?" she asked, using slow circles to loosen the tight muscles. "Besides terrorize a couple of women minding their own business."

Greg snorted. "Same old same old. Damn near died of boredom at work, came home, went to band practice." He paused. "Saw you."

Roz leaned in and kissed the nape of his neck. "It's always the best part of the day, seeing you too," she said, and continued with her work.

"Mmmmm . . ." He groaned softly and moved back a bit, easing himself closer to her. Roz smiled and accepted the tacit plea for more touch, letting her body press gently against his. "What are you and Sarah up to?"

"We're thinking about going to the city next weekend to look for my dress," she said. "Nothing fancy, just . . ."

"If you want fancy, get it," he said when she fell silent. Roz slipped her arm around his waist and gave him a little hug.

"Thanks," she said softly. "I don't want some big frilly monstrosity. Simple would be better." She let him go and continued her work. "We're still on for the game Sunday, right? Poppi said he'd close up early and come over to join us. I suspect he'll bring some antipasto and a couple of pizzas with him."

"Yeah, we're still on." He rolled his shoulder and sighed. "Much better. You should have gone into massage therapy."

Roz scooted back and lay down, inviting him to lie next to her. To her surprise he sat for a moment looking at her, his gaze pensive. Then he turned out the light and eased her against him spoon-style before he brought the covers up over them both. Roz shivered when his lips touched her neck, but she knew he was too tired to follow through. She closed her eyes and put her hands over his when his arm went around her, feeling her own weariness sink in now. _I wonder what that look was all about_ was her last thought before sleep claimed her.

_'I Ran', Flock of Seagulls_

_'Nervous Breakdown', Black Flag_

_'A Child and his Lawnmower', the Dead Kennedys_

_'Pump It Up', Elvis Costello and the Attractions  
_

_'Independence', The Blue Van (you might be familiar with it as the theme song for the tv series Royal Pains)_

_**Many thanks for reading. If you are so inclined, please leave a review on your way out, it would really make my day. **  
_


	9. Chapter 9

**_(A/N: it's not exactly a midweek extra because it took me longer to write than I'd expected, so think of this as a TGIF chapter. Anyway, there's no House in this one; it's all about Jason, so if you're not interested you can skip this and not miss out on the main story. _**

**_Much of what transpires in this chapter is taken from actual events, albeit ones that transpired some forty years ago. The bully's name is real-a fine example of why you shouldn't piss off a writer-as is the principal's. I haven't set foot in a middle school since that time, so please excuse errors re: modern curriculum setup and class structure._**

**_This chapter is dedicated to all the kids who endured endless rounds of bullying and beatdowns through their school years and made it through to find out things really do get better. You rock, my brothers and sisters. -B)  
_**

_February 9__th_

_6:15 a.m._

"C'mon son, rise 'n shine. Got school today."

Jason had opened his eyes when the first knock sounded at his bedroom door. Gibbs telling him school was still on despite last night's snowfall sent his spirits plummeting. Slowly he sat up and shivered as cool air invaded the nest of sheets, blankets and comforter he'd created for himself. After a moment or two he stood and went to the bathroom, starting his day with now-habitual reluctance.

When he came down to the kitchen breakfast was ready. Gibbs was a good cook and always made something Jason liked, the same way Doctor Goldman did. He filled his plate with bacon, eggs and toast and took a seat at the table. Gibbs sat to his right with the inevitable cup of coffee and the paper, listening to the farm report on the radio. As Jason ate he looked out the window at the Goldman's house. Gene had come home the night before from a consultation in San Francisco. He'd brought back a couple of loaves of some kind of bread, and that had made Doctor Goldman ecstatic with joy. _What's the big deal? It's just bread,_ Jason had thought, but kept his comments to himself. He'd learned early on that opening your mouth was a good way to get the crap beaten out of you . . . Jason stared at his plate, his appetite gone.

"What's up?" Gibbs lowered his paper. "Got a bellyache? Y'need t'slow down, plenty more where that came from."

"No sir . . . I'm fine." He ate some eggs, stomach churning. He'd better eat all he could, because for sure he'd be going without lunch again today. If he was lucky he wouldn't be jumped as well, but he couldn't count on that.

"Is there somethin' y'need to tell me?" Gibbs said it in the way he always did, simply and with a sort of quiet openness that usually made Jason feel safe. This, though . . . He swallowed and shook his head. Gibbs said nothing, his gaze steady.

"All right," he said mildly after a little silence, and lifted the paper again. "Better get finished up, bus'll be here soon."

Jason managed a third slice of toast, drank the last of his milk and took his plate and fork to the sink. He washed them up with care, trying hard not to think about what lay in store for him once he was on his way to school.

"Brush your teeth and don't forget that report, it's still by the computer," Gibbs reminded him. "You'll be over at Doc Goldman's after school, remember."

"I'll remember. Thanks."

Soon enough Jason stood at the end of the driveway, watching the yellow bus lumber down the road. He steeled himself for the ordeal ahead when the vehicle stopped next to him. The doors opened with a sharp clatter and a huff of air.

"Morning, Jason," Mrs. Williams said, giving him a smile. He nodded at her as he climbed aboard and scanned the seats. A big part of the problem was that his stop was at the end of her run, so that by the time she reached him he had only one or two choices of seating, and none of them good ones. With a silent sigh he moved forward, headed for the one place in enemy territory left open to him.

"Jason?" A girl's tentative voice broke his concentration. He looked to his right. Mandy Faust had the seat immediately behind the driver. The spot next to her was empty. "You can sit here," she said. She was blushing, her round face pink under the dark knitted cap she wore. He had to make a quick choice or Mrs. Williams would get impatient; he dropped onto the seat. The doors shut and they were on their way.

"Thanks," he mumbled, and hunched his shoulders as laughter and a few hoots greeted his action. He would be teased endlessly about this later. Mandy glanced at the back section and rolled her eyes.

"Asshats," she said with scorn, but low enough so Mrs. Williams wouldn't hear her. Jason snorted in amusement and studied Mandy out of the corner of his eye. She was in his class and routinely referred to as 'Fat Girl'; hardly anyone used her name except the teachers. There was no denying she was overweight; still, though he would have died a thousand deaths before he admitted it, he didn't find her ugly or anything. She was just kinda plump. She had glossy dark brown hair with a reddish tint to it and blue eyes that reminded him of Laynie's, bright and clear. When she smiled she had dimples in her cheek. She was smiling a little now, though she wasn't looking at him.

"Mr. Carey said a friend of Doctor Goldman's sent us a weather station," she said. "We can get our school on Channel Ten's forecast as a reporting center now, that's so cool."

"Yeah," he said, and tried to find something else to say.

"He said Doctor Jorgesen's a storm chaser, she follows tornadoes in the Midwest," Mandy said. "I bet she knows Reed Timmer and that guy making the IMAX movie."

"I get to talk to her," Jason said, and immediately regretted saying anything. He wished the seat would swallow him up. She'd slap him down for bragging.

"Really? What's she like?" Mandy sounded interested, not sarcastic. Jason blinked.

"Uh—she—she's nice," he said. "Smart."

"Maybe someday she'll talk to the class on the webcam." Mandy looked out the window. "I wonder what it's like to live someplace where they don't have snow."

"You don't like it here?" Jason asked, surprised. She shrugged.

"It's okay. I've just never been anywhere else. I'd like to see palm trees and the ocean." She gave him a sidelong glance and turned pink again. "Sorry, that was stupid."

"No it wasn't," he said, intrigued despite his discomfort. The color in Mandy's cheeks deepened.

"Thanks," she said. They both fell silent, but it was less tense and a little more friendly now. Again Jason cudgeled his brain for something to say.

"You're in my homeroom," he came up with at last. Mandy gave him a wry look, but she was smiling again.

"Yeah, I know," she said. Now it was Jason's turn to blush.

"Sorry," he said.

"It's okay," Mandy said, just as something hit the side of her head—a snowball. She flinched as it splattered all over her to the accompaniment of raucous jeers and hoots.

"Hey Fat Girl!" one of the boys in enemy territory yelled. "How many pizzas did you eat by yourself last night?"

The whole bus burst into laughter. Mrs. Williams looked in the big mirror above the windshield as she pulled into the school driveway. She braked to a stop.

"Roger Ferguson!" she said, and at the sound of her voice the group fell silent. "I've told you before about this kind of thing! You get up here!"

Slowly one of the older boys got to his feet. He sauntered up the aisle and paused by the seat where Jason and Mandy sat.

"What a cute couple. Fat Girl and Loser," he said in a taunting tone. "Fuck her yet, Bramble?"

"That's enough!" Mrs. Williams set the brake and put the engine in park, the ignition locked. "You're coming with me to the principal's office." She opened the doors and stood. "Get going!"

Gus gave her a dismissive look and turned back to Jason. "That's one fat ugly sow you picked for a girlfriend," he said. "See you later." He went out, with the driver close behind him. After a moment the rest of the group followed. Jason stayed where he was. He knew from long experience what would happen next. As each of the boys from enemy territory passed by they punched him—not in the face where it would show, but on his shoulders, his chest, his arms. He didn't dare to fight back because he already had a reputation for making trouble, but he also couldn't move because if he did, they'd just hit Mandy instead. So he stayed until everyone was gone. Then he got to his feet, hurting from a dozen hard blows, to find Mandy standing next to him on the empty bus.

"Why do they have to be so mean?" she whispered. There were tears in her eyes. Without warning she leaned up a little and kissed him on the cheek, a swift peck that still let him feel how soft her lips were, her warm breath ghosting over his skin. She smelled nice, like flowers. "Thank you, Jason," she said, and moved past him to hurry down the aisle and outside. Jason stood there for a moment. Then he slowly made his way to the doors, feeling confused in a strange way, as if his feet didn't quite touch the ground somehow even though he ached all over like a rotten tooth.

Homeroom was his favorite two hours of the day. Mr. Carey was a good teacher, and it was obvious he enjoyed his subject, science. He was funny, a good listener, and willing to ask for and act on suggestions from his students. Jason could have happily spent all his time there.

Language arts and history were another matter, however. It wasn't that he didn't like reading books or writing, or learning about the past; it was the teachers. They'd decided he was trouble, so anything that went wrong in class was his fault. He worked hard to be invisible, do what was required and sit away from the ones who really were causing problems, but it didn't help. Inevitably at least twice a week he was yelled at for something he didn't do. It was nothing new, it had been his reality as long as he could remember, but it was getting harder to put up with especially now that the Goldmans and Gibbs were taking care of him. They could see him for who he was—why couldn't other adults? He rubbed his aching shoulder and caught Gus grinning at him. The other boy sat head and shoulders taller than the kids around him; he was big to begin with and had been held back a year. That made him a formidable opponent, aside from the boys who acted as his enforcers and spies. Jason knew he would have to pay for his protection of Mandy.

They caught him at lunch, of course. He was backed into a corner while they took his money and gave him a few more surreptitious punches.

"If we wanna beat up that fat cow you're bangin' we will," Gus said, his contempt obvious. "You try standin' up for her and we'll trash you too, asshole."

Even though his body throbbed from the drubbing he'd received, Jason threw caution to the winds. "You leave her alone!" he snapped. In reply Gus rammed his fist into Jason's solar plexus. Then he and his followers walked away, leaving Jason sitting on the ground, struggling to breathe.

"Jason!" Mandy crouched in front of him. "I saw what they did! We need to go to a teacher—"

"No," he wheezed. "Don't."

"But Gus hurt you!"

Humiliation and rising anger made his temper spark again. "So what?" He struggled to his feet. "If you—hang with me—you'll get hurt too. Go away!"

"No," Mandy said. "I know they've been doing this almost every day, I've watched them. This morning you let them hit you so they wouldn't hurt me. They shouldn't be allowed to do this, it's not right!"

Jason almost laughed out loud at that statement, except it would have made him puke from the pain. "It doesn't matter," he said.

"Yes it does," Mandy said. "I'm going to the principal."

"Fine," Jason snarled, fed up with the entire situation. "You'll see-what happens-when you do." He stumbled off to sit at an empty table with his back to the wall, arms folded over his sore belly, doing his best to ignore the amused looks and loud comments sent his way.

He was in math class, his third favorite hour of the day, when the assistant secretary came to the door and consulted briefly with the teacher. "Jason Bramble," she said loudly, "come with me."

Over the snickers and whispers of his classmates Jason gathered up his stuff and followed the assistant, his heart sinking. This was it; he'd be pulled out of his foster home, lose everything he'd been given over the last couple of months and end up back with his parents. The thought of returning to cold, hunger and a daily beatdown made him nauseous, but he just continued plodding through the hall.

When he came into the office he found Gibbs and Doctor Goldman waiting. Jason came to a halt and swallowed on a dry throat.

"Hey." Doctor Goldman was looking at him, her gaze calm. There was no anger, no outrage. "Jason, it's all right. You're not in trouble."

"Have a seat, son," Gibbs said quietly. He indicated a chair next to him. Slowly Jason approached, keeping an eye on the principal and on Gibbs as well. Then he saw Mandy standing next to Doctor Goldman. He stopped, astonished. She'd done it—she'd told. The shit was really going to hit the fan now.

"Sit," Gibbs said. Jason obeyed, perched on the edge in case he had to make an escape.

"Mandy says you're being bullied," Principal Fiddyment said. Jason looked at the floor and said nothing. "Is this true, Jason?" He could hear the disbelief in the woman's voice and hated her for it.

"Jason," Gibbs said, in that same quiet, undemanding tone habitual with him. "What happened?"

Still Jason said nothing. Doctor Goldman directed her next comment to Mandy. "Please tell us what you saw," she said.

"This morning on the bus, Jason protected me. He let the guys hit him so they wouldn't hit me. They like to pick on me because I'm fat." Mandy's voice quivered a little, but she kept going. "Then at lunch, they stole his money and beat him up. They've been doing that for a long time, and not just to him. Gus-Ferguson steals from half the kids in the school because he can. The teachers don't pay attention because he's smart enough not to do it in front of them."

"What proof do you have of all of this?" Fiddyment asked.

"Jason has bruises," Mandy said. Jason looked up at her, shocked. "I know you do, they hit you so hard," she said. Her clear blue eyes pleaded with him. "Show them," she said. "Please. It's the only way to stop this from going on."

"It doesn't matter," he said.

"Yes it does!" Mandy took a step forward and then moved back, her cheeks flushed. "Please, Jason. I won't look, I promise." She folded her arms and turned around.

"Can you show us?" Doctor Goldman asked softly. She was worried now. Jason sighed. They'd just keep after him until he did what they asked. Slowly he got to his feet. He took a breath, steadied himself. _Might as well show them everything and get it over with_, he thought, and peeled off his tee shirt and sweater in one quick movement. There was a moment of utter silence. Then the principal cleared her throat.

"All right, Jason," she said. "You—you can put your shirt back on."

Jason complied, burning with humiliation. He sat down, wishing he were a thousand miles away from this place.

"It's all right, son," Gibbs said. Jason's mortification eased a little at his calm words.

"What—what proof do you have that Ferguson did this to you?" Fiddyment asked. "I can't charge him unless there's substantial evidence, given Jason's past record."

"I saw it happen!" Mandy said, her voice thick with outrage. She turned around and faced the principal, glaring at her.

"I need more than your word," Fiddyment said stiffly. "If we could catch them in the act . . ."

"You're suggesting Jason put himself in harm's way?" Doctor Goldman sounded angry. The principal bristled, but before she could speak Gibbs stopped her.

"Seems to me we've had this discussion before," he said, his eyes on the woman behind the desk. "You called me in here some years ago when m'son David got into a fight. Accused him of startin' it even when he told you he didn't, that he'd been picked on by one of the older boys and had the bruises t'show for it and the other kid didn't." He leaned forward a little. "Have t'wonder why that's happenin' again."

"Jason has a history of fighting," Fiddyment said. She glared at Gibbs. "I need definitive proof that Ferguson is doing what these two are suggesting. If you can get me that, I'll take action."

"I could use my cell phone," Mandy said. "Tomorrow, when they—" She paused. "I could record it." She looked at Jason. "Could you—let them-?"

"It isn't gonna make any difference," Jason said. Why couldn't any of them understand that?

"Yes it will," Doctor Goldman said. "Maybe not right away, but if you're willing to tell the truth and stand up, things can change. I'll help you." She faced Fiddyment. "We believe Jason and Mandy, but we'll get you the proof you need," she said. "Leave it to us."

"Yes, well . . ." The principal looked uncomfortable. "It's nearly the end of the day now anyway, perhaps you'd like to take Jason home a little early."

"Fine by me," Doctor Goldman said. There was a tone in her voice that told Jason she was none too happy with Fiddyment. It made him feel better, knowing she and Gibbs believed him. "And we'd be happy to take Mandy home as well. I don't think she should be riding the bus alone right now."

"I have to let my mom know," Mandy said, looking uncertain. "She's working late today."

"You could stay at our place until she can pick you up, if it's okay with your mother," Doctor Goldman said, smiling. "Why don't you give her a call?"

Gibbs got to his feet. "I'll be headin' home now. Supper's at seven, son," he said to Jason. His grey eyes held concern and a steady confidence that warmed Jason's cold insides. "You need anything, you tell Sarah or me, y'understand?"

"Yes sir."

Gibbs nodded and left the room, ignoring the principal. Doctor Goldman followed suit a few moments later.

"We'll get this straightened out," she said as they headed down the hallway to the parking lot.

A short time later Mandy walked into the Goldmans front hall and stopped, her eyes wide.

"Oh wow," she said, taking it all in. "Oh _wow_."

"Make yourself at home," Doctor Goldman said. "I'm going to give Jason something for the bruising, we'll be back in a few minutes."

In the bathroom she said quietly, "If you want to lift up your tee shirt and sweater I can put something on the bruises to make them hurt less and heal faster."

Wordlessly he did as she asked, watching as she took a small container out of the medicine cabinet. "This is arnica salve," she said, and showed it to him. "Now, is it okay if I touch you?"

Jason stared at her. "Don't you kinda hafta do that?" he asked.

"Yes, but I don't ever take touching someone for granted," Doctor Goldman said. "I'll always ask permission first, Jason. If you say no, that means no. You have my word."

After a moment he nodded his head. She smiled a little. "Thanks," she said softly, and began to put the salve on the bruises. They looked worse now, dark blue and purple in places, and they ached. As she applied the salve however, the pain began to fade. Her touch was gentle and light; she didn't linger, and for that he was grateful because despite her care she made him remember times when his mother had put her hands on him, and not with the intent to heal or comfort or even beat him up. He shied away from those memories, pushed them deep inside and slammed the lid on them tight. No one would ever know about what had happened, not if he could help it.

When she was done Doctor Goldman helped him roll down his shirt and sweater. "I'll send this home with you," she said, indicating the container of salve. "You should apply some more tonight when you go to bed, just make sure you wear a tee shirt so you don't mess up the sheets. Okay? I'll let Bob know."

"Thanks," Jason said, and walked with her to the kitchen where Mandy was waiting.

"Help yourself to fruit or cookies and milk," Doctor Goldman said as she put the kettle on. Jason took a banana and some oatmeal-raisin bars, but Mandy hung back.

"I shouldn't eat between meals," she said. She looked embarrassed. "It makes me—makes me-gain weight."

Doctor Goldman put a teabag into a mug. "Okay, I understand. There's bottled water in the fridge if you would like some. I'm going to talk to Doctor Jorgesen on the webcam, you're welcome to join me."

In no time at all they were in the office, crowded around the monitor. Jason mostly watched as Mandy and Laynie talked and laughed and became friends instantly in that mystifying, effortless way girls seemed to just have. It dawned on him slowly that Laynie was big too—not fat exactly, but despite what the other kids said about Mandy she wasn't really fat either. He glanced at Doctor Goldman, who was sitting off to the side putting in the occasional comment. She was watching Laynie and Mandy, and Jason knew somehow she had done this deliberately, bringing the two of them together.

"Jason stood up for me," Mandy was saying, and Jason switched his attention away from his musings to the conversation.

"Awesome! Jason, you're the man!" Laynie gave him a wide smile, her blue eyes bright with approval, and he ducked his head in embarrassment. "I know it's tough when the other kids pick on you all the time. I went through that too."

"You did? But you're beautiful," Mandy said. Laynie's smile dimmed.

"Thank you, Amanda. I've always been big," she said. "Some people think that makes it okay to be mean, when someone else is different in some way. Just remember what a great lady said once: 'No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.'" She smiled at Mandy. 'You've got nothing to feel inferior about, Amanda. Neither do you, Jason. You're both smart, good-lookin' and fun to be around. You just wait. People worth knowing will find you, and things will get better. You'll see. It happened for me. I found Sarah and she's an excellent friend."

"Back atcha," Sarah said, raising her mug in salute. Laynie laughed.

"You're the best, babe! Now, about that weather station in your homeroom—how's it working out?"

Mandy's mom arrived an hour later. She was a short, plump woman with Mandy's brown hair and blue eyes, and her dimpled smile too. It was obvious she was a nurse at the medical center, from the scrubs she wore to the scuffed white walking shoes on her feet. She listened in silence as Doctor Goldman and Mandy told her what had transpired. When the story was finished she put an arm around Mandy and looked at Jason.

"If my daughter says you defended her and didn't start trouble, I believe her," she said quietly. "Thanks for standing up for her, Jason. That was a good thing you did. We'll never forget it."

"See you tomorrow," Mandy said. She didn't smile. "I'll have my phone with me. We'll get them on video and make sure the principal sees it, I promise."

Jason thought about that as he and Doctor Goldman trudged over the lane to Gibbs's house. "I don't know why everyone thinks what I did was so wonderful," he said out loud.

"That's exactly why it's great," Doctor Goldman said, confusing him further. They stopped in front of the door. "It's been a long day and I won't keep you. Just know that if you need anything at all, I'm here and so is Gene, and Bob too. Okay?" She faced him. "How's the pain? Will you be able to sleep tonight?"

Jason nodded. "It doesn't hurt. I'll be fine," he said, offering her a half-truth. Sarah studied his face, then sighed softly.

"Okay. See you tomorrow then."

Of course he spent most the night lying awake, trying to come to a decision about what to do after Mandy showed the video footage to the principal. Fiddyment would never believe he was not the one causing trouble, even though Gus was obviously the problem. Jason's dad had explained how things worked to him one night after he'd had been sent home from school for fighting.

_("It don't matter if you start things or not." Dad reached for another beer and popped the top on the can. "The Fergusons are big money people in this county 'n the school board knows it. That kid c'n do what he likes. Just stay outta his way, you stupid little bastard.")_

Jason punched his pillow and turned his back to the wall. Well, whatever happened he'd have to just deal with the fallout, as usual. This time he probably really would lose his foster placement. It didn't bear thinking about, so he pulled the covers over his head and did his best to distract himself by thoughts of other things, with little success.

Morning came at last, though he'd hoped it would hold off a little longer. He got up, went through all the motions, ate enough breakfast to satisfy Gibbs, and tried not to dread the bus ride ahead. Soon enough he was sitting in enemy territory, having bypassed Mandy at the front. She hadn't look at him, staring straight ahead—but when one of Gus's boys grabbed his arm and twisted it and another one punched his chest, he caught a glimpse of her cell phone poking out from down low on the side of the seat, recording the scene. Despite the pain it was all he could do not to laugh out loud.

The morning slid slowly by. At lunch Jason was careful to do nothing different, and was rewarded by the usual daily money grab and roughing up. He couldn't see Mandy but figured she was hiding somewhere getting the evidence. It was all the worse therefore when a couple of Gus's toadies brought her to the corner where Jason was trapped. They'd frog-marched her there, and now that they were out of sight of the adults they were enjoying pushing her around. Mandy didn't look scared at all; her eyes flashed with fury and she struggled to pull her arms free.

"She's got the whole thing on her cell," one of the boys said. He handed the phone to Gus, who turned to Mandy.

"You stupid pig," he said, and opened the phone. "You thought you'd set me up? Don't you know it doesn't matter? I can do whatever the fuck I want, my dad owns this place." He looked over the keypad and moved his thumb to the MENU button, ready to delete the video. Jason knew he had one chance to stop what was about to happen. He charged forward, tackling the older boy to the floor. The phone went flying and the fight was on. He slugged Gus as hard as he could and had the satisfaction of landing his blow right into the other boy's balls. Gus gasped and curled up, still trying to grab Jason but too preoccupied with pain to be effectual. And then suddenly there were teachers wading through the sea of combatants, hauling kids upright.

"That's enough! Knock it off! That's enough, I said!" Mr. Carey got Jason on his feet and gripped his shoulder. Jason froze, trembling waiting for a hard smack to the head, but it never came. "All right, everyone down to the principal's office NOW!"

Jason had a brief glimpse of Mandy. It looked like someone had hit her in the eye and her hair was a mess, her clothing torn. But she held up the phone and gave him a tight smile. Jason felt a surge of hope. Maybe, just maybe this wouldn't end badly.

In short order Principal Fiddyment's office was crowded with sullen boys, most of them glaring at Jason and Mandy, who sat on the other side of the room. Gus was perched in one of the padded visitor's chairs, emitting loud moans and holding his crotch. It was mainly for show by this point, but Jason remembered the feel of his knuckles driving into soft flesh and savored the memory. He'd gotten a little of his own back at least.

"What happened, as if I didn't know?" the principal said, and sent Jason a nasty look. Gus smirked at him between groans. Jason said nothing; he knew better than to attempt any kind of explanation.

"I'm not saying anything until my mother and Doctor Goldman get here," Mandy said. "I just called both of them. They're on their way."

"Shut your fat face, you hog," Gus said.

"That's enough, Roger!" Fiddyment snapped. "I'd better call your parents too, we might as well have a meeting and get this sorted out to everyone's satisfaction." She lifted the receiver on the phone and punched in a number. Jason glanced at Gus and was surprised to see he'd gone very still, his face turning pale.

Within fifteen minutes everyone had been moved to a conference room. Mrs. Faust, Doctor Goldman and Gibbs were grouped with Mandy and Jason, while Gus's dad sat with his son on the other side of the table. At Mr. Ferguson's appearance Gus had seemed to shrink inside himself. He lost the swaggering arrogance he wore like a second skin and said little to nothing, sitting like a statue in his seat. Only his eyes moved, watching his father with an intensity that told its own story.

_He's scared of his dad,_ Jason realized. There could be only one reason why: Gus's father hit him too, or said things that were just as bad as punches to the head or body. It was an unwelcome revelation; the last thing Jason wanted to feel was sympathy for the meanest kid in the entire school, the one who made everyone else's life miserable just because he was being beat down at home. _So he's taking it out on the rest of us, _Jason thought. _How stupid is that? He could have left people alone instead, since he knows what it's like to get the shit kicked out of you all the time. _

"I have the evidence on my phone," Mandy was saying. She had a black eye now, a real shiner, but she didn't seem to care. "I took a video on the bus and in the cafeteria." She handed the phone to her mother, who looked over the footage. As she watched her face grew red and her lips tightened. Without a word she handed the phone to Doctor Goldman, who watched the vids with Gibbs. Her eyes narrowed and darkened with anger. Gibbs shot Gus a keen, penetrating look but said nothing. He handed the phone to Mr. Ferguson, who took it gingerly. As he viewed the footage his face turned even more red than Mrs. Faust's did. When it ended he gave his son a glare that would have sent Jason into hiding, if it had been his dad.

"I warned you about this, boy," Mr. Ferguson said in a low tone, and Gus flinched. He was white as a sheet, his shoulders hunched; he looked smaller, deflated. He licked his lips, darted a glance at Jason and then away.

When Principal Fiddyment watched the videos she bowed her head a little. She looked resigned and more than a little disgusted. "I'm afraid this is indisputable evidence of bullying and assault," she said to Mr. Ferguson. "I'll have to suspend Roger for a week."

"A _week!_" Mrs. Faust began, obviously furious, but Gus's dad interrupted her.

"You won't have to do that, Nancy. I'm taking him out of here and sending him off to military school. Should have done it last year when this sort of trouble began." He got to his feet and turned to Mrs. Faust, Doctor Goldman and Gibbs.

"You have my apologies," he said. He glanced at Gus. "Get up," he said in the same low tone he'd used earlier. Gus obeyed, standing so quickly he almost tripped over his feet. He stared at the floor; Jason could see he was trembling.

"Apologize," Mr. Ferguson said in a tone that would allow no argument whatsoever.

"I'm sorry," Gus said at once. He didn't lift his head. His father exhaled slowly. Then he gripped Gus's arm. Jason winced, knowing exactly what that iron-hard grasp felt like and how it hurt for days afterward. He caught a movement from Doctor Goldman. She had started to lift her hand and pulled it back down, but from the look on her face Jason knew she understood that grip too. He remembered the scars on her arm, her telling him someone else had hurt her. _So she was beat down by her parents too,_ he thought. In that moment he saw the adults in the room through different eyes—not as grownups but as the children they'd once been. It made him incredibly uncomfortable. Had Doctor Goldman been like him, with no one at home to trust, no friends at school? Had Mr. Ferguson been like Gus, a bully? Had Principal Fiddyment been a jerk, sticking with the popular kids and ignoring everyone else? And Mrs. Faust, just a nice kid? It was possible. So what would _he_ be like when he was old? He shivered and pushed the question away. He couldn't begin to imagine being thirty or forty, or as ancient as Gibbs; that was decades away, an unfathomable stretch of time.

"Come on," Mr. Ferguson was saying. He put Gus in front of him and together they exited the room. There was silence for a few moments after that. Then Principal Fiddyment cleared her throat.

"Anyone with family members here can go home," she said. "None of you are at fault for your part in what happened. The rest of you can wait until your parents pick you up. I'll decide your punishment tonight and let them know tomorrow when you can come back to school."

When they reached the parking lot Jason faced Mandy. "Here," he said, and reached into his backpack to hand her the little container of arnica salve. She accepted it and read the label.

"'For bruises and sprains'," she read, and looked up to flash him a smile. "Thanks."

"Just don't get it in your eye," he said, feeling his cheeks grow warm. "I mean—not down around the lids, just the bruised part."

"I won't." She tucked the salve in her backpack. "If it's okay with Mr. Gibbs and Doctor Goldman, could I come over on Saturday and work with you on that project for homeroom? If you're not doing anything," she added. Jason blinked, startled.

"It's not due for another month," he said.

"Yeah I know, but if we turn it in early we'll get extra credit and then we can work on the new weather module Mr. Carey put up for anyone who's interested." Mandy's good eye sparkled. "We could talk about it with Laynie while she's getting ready for the summer chase season. She already said we can call her anytime."

Jason thought about it. "Okay," he said, pleased by the idea. Mandy's smile widened.

"Cool," she said. "See you tomorrow," and headed for her mother, who was standing a little distance away, talking with Gibbs and Doctor Goldman. Jason watched her go, aware of an odd sensation inside. He'd never had someone his age actually want to be around him. It was kinda weird mainly because she was a girl, but when he thought about it he really didn't care. She interested him and he wanted to be around her too, to find out more about her, what she was like. Maybe they'd even turn out to be friends, though he wasn't going to expect that. Mutual curiosity was enough for now.

It was later that evening, after supper was done and he was working on his homework, that he and Gibbs received a visitor.

"Hey," Gene said, stomping his feet on the mudroom mat. He held out a hand to Gibbs, who had gotten up to greet him. "Bob, how are you?"

"Can't complain. Wouldn't do no good anyway," Gibbs said, his grey eyes twinkling. "Come in and warm up, coldner'n all get out tonight."

"Yeah," Gene said, and hung up his coat. "Can't be spring soon enough." He glanced at Jason. "You mind if I talk to your young man here in private?"

All the warmth drained out of Jason as apprehension took over. Gibbs was saying "Sure, use the living room and close the door. I'll have one more cup of decaf and finish my puzzle." He gave Gene a steady look. "Maybe you'll tell me what's up when you're done."

"If Jason says it's okay," Gene said, to Jason's surprise. He gestured toward the living room. Slowly Jason got up and went in to sit on the couch, his heart thumping. Gene followed him in and closed the door, then sat down across from him.

"I hear there's been some trouble at school," he said quietly. "Are you all right?"

Jason stared at him. He'd expected accusations, a demand for an explanation, anger, disbelief . . . "'m okay," he mumbled.

"Good," Gene said. "Sarah says you've been putting up with someone ragging on you, taking your lunch money."

Jason looked at the floor. "Yeah," he said.

"If anything like this ever happens again, I want you to tell me or Sarah or Bob," Gene said. "Then I want you to stand up for yourself."

That was a surprise. Jason lifted his gaze to Gene, shocked. "What?"

"I'm not saying you should punch out people right and left," Gene said. "But if someone's trying to hurt you, you have the right to defend yourself." He paused. "Do you know how?"

"You mean—like martial arts or something?" Jason shook his head. "Just how to hit, that's all."

"Okay, that's a place to start." Gene sat up just a little. "I'm gonna offer to give you boxing lessons. We can hang a bag in the barn and when you get a little bigger we can spar, as long as you promise not to beat the snot out of me."

"You know how to box?"

"Yeah, I learned in the military. It's a good way to keep in shape and take care of business if some buttmunch decides to come after you." Gene's gaze was level. "You know as well as I do that getting rid of a bully means someone else will try to take his place sooner or later. That's just how things go."

Jason nodded. What the adults and Mandy had done was admirable, but it only solved the problem for a while. "Yeah."

"Okay, good. We can start this weekend—maybe go up the road and look at the sporting goods store, they should have something we can bring home and bash around." Gene kept his gaze on Jason. "How bad did they beat you up?"

"I'm okay," Jason said. He saw nothing but concern in Gene's dark eyes, and decided to hazard a bit more of the truth. "Kinda sore."

"Thought so," Gene said. "I got trashed once after I went after that dickwad Mike Finnegan for takin' my lunch money every day for a month. I was sore as hell for a week, but it was worth it."

"I hit Gus pretty hard in the balls," Jason admitted. Gene grinned, his white teeth flashing.

"Good work," he said. "I thought you might be hurting so I brought a couple samples of prescription strength ibuprofen for you. It'll reduce the swelling and help you get some sleep. I'm sure you didn't get much last night." His grin faded. "I'm going to ask you to show me the bruises, if that's okay. I know you had to do it a couple of times already, and I'm not asking just out of curiosity. I want to examine you to make sure nothing else is wrong. Is that all right?"

Jason nodded. "It's okay." He stood and took off his tee shirt and sweater. Gene came over and sat next to him.

"Eyes only," he said. "If I need to touch you I'll ask first."

Jason nodded again. Gene had him turn, his features serious now as he studied the pattern of mottled bruises over Jason's torso and back, shoulders and arms.

"Okay, you can put your shirt and sweater on. Can I ask you a question?" Gene said after a minute or two.

"Yeah." Jason's voice was muffled as he tugged the garments back in place.

"Did someone in your house use a strap on you?" Gene's voice was very quiet. Jason stood there, caught by surprise.

_("Don't you never tell no one about this, you little bastard. I'll kill ya if y'do, unnerstan' me?")_

"Whoever it was told you not to tell," Gene said. Jason stared at him, unable to speak, barely able to breathe. "Look, you don't have to say anything out loud. Just nod yes or no."

He struggled with it for a long time, but finally managed to nod yes. Gene exhaled, a long slow sigh. "Thought so," he said quietly. "I bet there's a lot more where that came from too." He nodded. "All right. You've been through enough for the last few days. No more questions or poking and prodding. I just want you to know that if you ever need help of any kind, I don't care what it is—someone's wailing on you or you're in a bad way, doesn't matter. You come see me and if I can, I'll help put it right. Okay?"

Jason looked at the man sitting next to him. He meant every word he said, it was obvious; he also believed it was worth his time and effort, offering help. "Okay," Jason said. "Thanks."

"We'll look into getting you a phone too," Gene said. "Nothing fancy, but I'd feel better if you had one."

"_Excellent,_" Jason said, and realized what he'd said. "Uh—I mean, thank you."

"You're welcome." Gene stood up. "Is it all right if I touch you?"

Jason nodded. Gene put a hand on his shoulder, gentle but firm. "I'm proud of you," he said, and gave him a light pat. "Come on, I brought over one of those Tupperware thingies full of Sarah's cookies to stock up the jar in the kitchen. If Bob says it's okay you can have some with a glass of milk to take the ibuprofen."

"What kind?" Jason dared to ask.

"Oatmeal raisin," Gene said, smiling. "She knows they're your favorite, so it's her way of giving you a reward. Oh, and Laynie says when she comes to visit for Greg and Roz's wedding she's gonna give you a kiss and a hug for being so brave."

"Sick," Jason said, feeling a pleasant tingle inside at the thought. Gene laughed.

"Chronic," he said. "Cookies first, though." They left the living room together, Gene's hand resting lightly on Jason's shoulder. _Maybe like a real dad would do,_ he thought, and then abandoned himself to the delights of fresh cookies and milk.

**_Many thanks for reading. If you are so inclined, please leave a review. It would really make my day. _**


	10. Chapter 10

**_(A/N: more fluff ahead. My apologies, but I'm apparently not able to write anything else at the moment. Bear with me. _**

**_The Rue St. Denis is a real store in the East Village near Alphabet City, though I haven't been there in some time. I've taken a bit of dramatic license with it, but the salespeople truly are as welcoming as described in the chapter-a welcome change from the usual attitude in most NYC vintage stores-and the selection of dresses, while limited, is amazing._**

**_Many thanks to VIDZ for excellent advice on how Roz's engagement ring would need to be configured for safety reasons. Your help is very much appreciated. -B)_**

_February 12__th_

_1:30 p.m._

Roz sipped her latte and glanced out the window at the busy sidewalks past the glass. It was exciting to visit the city, listen to the bustle of traffic and people, the laughter and talk drifting through the café, along with the fragrance of roasting coffee beans and steamed milk; still, it felt like something was missing. She wished Greg was at her side, snarking at the waitress and complaining about the coffee and copping feels off her when he thought he could get away with it. _Got it bad when you want your fiancé with you on a girlie expedition like this one, _she thought. "I think I'm being too picky," she said aloud. She put down her cup and broke a chunk off her croissant, munching it and feeling troubled. "That ivory lace dress was really nice."

"But it wasn't what you wanted," Kris said. She smiled at Roz. "Don't worry, we'll find the right one. We're hitting the East Village after lunch. I know this great place, the Rue St. Denis. Loads of dresses, most of them couture, almost all of them never even worn. I know there's something there for you."

"We'll probably all find our dresses there," Sarah said. "After the big name designers discovered Screaming Mimi's I switched over to Rue. It's a treasure trove, you'll see."

Roz nodded, somewhat reassured. "Okay. I trust you," she said. "Just rein me in if you see me going crazy, all right?"

"No way," Sarah said. "That's the whole point of this expedition. Wretched excess can be fun once in a while, you know."

They finished up and cabbed it to the store's address in the Village. Snow fell in swirls of fat flakes as they walked along together, peering in shop windows, admiring antique jewelry, shoes and purses.

"Do you have your rings yet?" Kris asked.

"I've been doing some looking," Roz said. She stuck her left hand into her coat pocket. Sarah put her arm through the crook of Roz's arm and gave her a little hug.

"You'll find something beautiful and Greg will love it," she said. "C'mon, let's go get you a dress."

They abandoned the window-shopping and went into the store, to find the attendant waiting for them.

"You look like women in search of something special on a really miserable afternoon," she said with a smile. "How can I help?"

"We have a bride to be," Sarah said, indicating Roz. The attendant raised her brows, her smile widening in what appeared to be real pleasure. _Thinking of her commission,_ Roz thought, and knew Greg would have said it out loud.

"A non-traditional dress? I like the way you think," the woman said. "Do you have an idea of what you'd like?"

"Something . . . something green," Roz said hesitantly.

"I'd say green with a yellow undertone," Kris said. "It's an evening ceremony, so darker colors would be all right."

The attendant nodded. "Okay, got it. Let's get started. I'm Sheri, by the way."

They introduced themselves and trooped to the women's side of the store, moving toward the back where the couture dresses were displayed.

"There's a fitting room in the corner," Sheri said. "You make yourself comfortable and we'll bring you some things to look over."

Ten minutes later Roz had two strapless floor-length dresses. One was a simple forest green organdy sheath with a wide satin ribbon at the waist; the second was deep olive slub silk with a shirred bodice and a flared skirt. She tried both of them on and modeled for Sarah, Kris and Sheri.

"The first one's too dark," Kris said, and Sheri nodded her head.

"The second one's the right color, but the wrong style," Sarah said. Roz touched the soft silk.

"I do like this color," she admitted. Sheri tilted her head and contemplated Roz with a shrewd expression.

"Those are the only green evening dresses we have out right now, but we just got some stock in from an estate sale. Let me check in the back," she said. "I think I remember something that might be exactly what you're looking for."

Ten minutes later she came back with a dress in her arms. "Found it," she said in triumph. Roz drew in her breath, her eyes widening, and felt a tingle of delicious anticipation go down her spine. Sarah brought her fingers up to her lips, her eyes wide with delight.

"Oh," Kris breathed. "Oh _wow_."

"Give this a look-see," Sheri said. She gently eased the dress into Roz's keeping.

It was lovely: a strapless fitted bodice of peridot-green silk with a pointed-edge sweetheart neckline and a gathered, full floor-length skirt made of black silk, a layer of soft black chiffon sprinkled with black sequins floating over it. There was a slender little black belt around the waist too. Sarah and Kris helped ease the dress into place. When Roz straightened a sigh echoed through the fitting room.

"Take a look in the mirror," Sheri said, smiling. Roz moved over a bit. She stared at herself, then glanced at Sarah in enthralled disbelief.

"It's the one, isn't it?" Sarah said. Roz nodded.

"It's perfect," she whispered. Then apprehension replaced the happiness. "Should I do something about . . ." She held her scarred arm and hand out a little as she lowered her gaze, feeling her cheeks grow warm. Sheri's expression changed, showing a little surprise at first and then genuine kindness.

"I'm thinking if your man's marrying you he doesn't care," she said, "but if you like, we can look for some gloves. We've got some nice opera length black silk lace pairs. They're not scratchy like the polyester-thread ones. It would take ten minutes to alter the left one so it fits perfectly. They'll look fantastic, very _chic_. Let me get you a few to try. I'll be right back." She paused. "That dress was made for you," she said with absolute sincerity. "You're gonna knock your sweetie's socks off, honey, trust me. If he doesn't think you're the most gorgeous woman alive, he's blind as a bat."

The gloves were tried on and a pair found to match the dress. Roz did a slow turn in front of the mirror, the skirt rustling softly.

"Green and black," Sarah said, smiling at Roz in the mirror. "Now that's an elegant color theme for an evening wedding. I can finally get myself a new little black dress and wear a green sash."

"Me too," Kris said as Sheri and Roz laughed. "The men can wear black suits and white shirts with ties a few shades darker than your dress, they'll look great. Very crisp and clean, very elegant." She patted Roz's shoulder. "Excellent choice. This is going to be the wedding of the year."

Roz smoothed the skirt of her dress. "Wedding of the year," she said, and snuck a glance at herself in the mirror once more.

Sarah found a magnificent DuBarry sixties silk draped black sheath; Kris opted for an eighties English spaghetti-strap pleated black chiffon number.

"We have Indian silk scarves," Sheri tempted them. "There's a whole stack of green ones in the same color category as Ms deGroot's dress. They'd make wonderful accessories."

Not only did they opt for the scarves, they bought black lace gloves as well. "My god, we'll be the most elegant thing to hit town in years," Kris laughed. "Wilson won't know me, he's only ever seen me in ugly Christmas sweaters."

Sarah looked at Roz, but neither of them said anything until they'd made arrangements for the clothes to be delivered to their hotel and were on their way there. Then Sarah said quietly, "I doubt very much Wilson will attend the wedding, Kris."

"Oh, really?" She sounded disappointed. "But he and House are good friends. Does he have a scheduling conflict?"

"He's . . . not well," Sarah said. Kris looked surprised, then concerned.

"What's wrong?"

"It isn't really something I can discuss," Sarah said. "It's not life-threatening, but . . . he probably won't be ready to be there."

Kris was silent a few moments. "Would it be possible for me to get in touch with him?" she said finally. It was clear from the question she'd realized Wilson's problem wasn't physical. She sounded a little sad.

"I'll ask," Sarah said. Roz looked out the window at storefronts and buildings as the cab moved past them in fits and starts. _If Sare hadn't worked with Greg, hadn't brought him home, I would never have met him, _she thought. _Funny how many things turn on one decision. _

"You're quiet," Sarah said. "Did we wear you out?" She rubbed Roz's arm lightly. "We can order in and have an early night if you want."

"I'm all right," Roz said softly. "Just . . . just thinking how random life can be."

"That it can," Sarah said. She glanced at Kris. "Dinner and a movie still sound good?"

Kris seemed to come back to herself. She nodded. "Absolutely. I've been dying to see The King's Speech ever since I found out Colin Firth's in it."

"Wet tee shirt Darcy," Sarah said in a reverent tone. They all laughed, the cheerful atmosphere restored once more.

_February 14__th_

_7 p.m._

"I can't believe we're actually looking for rings on Valentine's Day." Greg folded his arms and tucked his chin down to his chest, staring at the monitor with a morose expression. Roz fought the urge to laugh.

"I said we could wait," she pointed out. "I said we didn't have to do it tonight. We can shut down the computer and play Hot Pursuit or go to my place and make out—"

"Oh, shut up. Might as well get this over with," he groused. "We can do both of those things when we're finished, so show me what you want and let's get this nightmare over with."

Roz clicked on the media player and put on some Al Green. She was rewarded by seeing Greg relax a little as the music began. She pulled down the website for the artisan and antique consignment jewelry place one town over.

"What do you think of this?" she asked, resting the cursor on one of the entries. Greg peered at it and frowned.

"That's not even a quarter carat," he said.

"I don't want a big stone," Roz said.

"All women want a headlight on their finger to show off," Greg said. "It's in the Girl's Handbook."

"This girl doesn't," Roz said. "Anyway, the setting will have to fit under a work glove and not stick out. Otherwise it'll catch on something and get damaged, or I'll end up with another chunk of finger missing. That means a small stone in a secure setting." She hesitated. "I don't need a flashy rock," she said quietly. "I'd rather have you save the money for setting up the practice."

After a moment Greg's hand came to rest on her back. "Stop testing me and show me what you really want."

Roz clicked on another selection. "This is the one I like," she said, and it was the truth. The gold band was flat with slightly beveled edges, incised with a simple flowing knotwork wave pattern. Set above the stylized waves was one little diamond, round and gleaming like a rising full moon. "It would look nice with a plain wedding ring," she said.

"This is it," Greg said quietly. Roz nodded.

"Yes," she said. It was the first ring she'd found that suited her taste and requirements, and didn't cost a small fortune. "It's fourteen carat gold so it won't dent or scratch easily, and the setting is recessed flush so the diamond won't fall out."

"I don't think you'd notice even if it did," Greg said. "It's barely more than a chip."

"It's pretty," Roz said, and meant it. Greg looked at her, his gaze bright and searching, a hint of a reluctant smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Okay. Put the order in for it and a couple of plain gold bands," he said at last. His hand rubbed her back lightly, then withdrew. "Size ten for mine."

Roz sent off the order request and rested her cheek against his shoulder. "I'd be happy with a string around my finger if it came from you," she said, knowing he'd tease her.

"Sure, now you tell me after I already bought the damn things." He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Thanks for wearing a ring too, _amante_," she said softly.

"You wear one, I wear one." He got to his feet. "We done here?"

"We're done." Roz printed out a copy of the order confirmation.

"You found a dress on your foray into the wilds of Manhattan?" Greg moved toward the door.

"Yes."

He turned to look at her. "Yes? That's it? No raptures, no gushing, no fountains of joy?"

"Nope." Roz followed him into the living room. "You will have to wear a green tie, though."

"Oh my god," he groaned. "This isn't some Irish fantasy my shrink thought up, is it?"

"Don't start," she said, and pushed him gently toward his favorite chair. He dropped down into it and grunted as she took her usual spot curled up next to him.

"When the hell is this disaster again?"

"April fifteenth," she said. "It'll be an evening ceremony and reception here at the house." She settled in with a little sigh of contentment. "Nothing fancy, okay? I wouldn't inflict that on you. We get hitched, we eat some cake and dance the first dance, then we can leave for my place."

"Dance? We have to dance too?" Greg sounded aggrieved. Roz laughed and kissed his cheek. He rolled his eyes, but she saw the amusement in their blue depths. "You're killing me here."

"So stop asking questions about it and set up the game already, whiner," she said. He huffed but did as she instructed, his hand resting on her hip in a possessive gesture she secretly loved. She turned her attention to the delights of Hot Pursuit, happy to be where she was, in the moment, in her man's embrace. It was enough and more.

_10:30 p.m_.

When her phone rang Sarah checked the ID, but she already knew who was calling. "Hey Jim," she said quietly. At her side Gene stirred but didn't wake. With care she pushed aside the covers and eased out of bed.

"Sarah," Jim said. He sounded tired, dispirited, and her heart went out to him. "I know it's late, but . . . can we . . . just–just talk for a few minutes? I'm—I'm in Nolan's office. There was—a . . . a problem earlier, I . . . I need . . ." He fell silent.

"Of course we can," she said, shrugging into her bathrobe and heading out into the hallway. She closed the door behind her and began to descend the steps to the living room. "What happened? How are you?"

"I . . . I don't know." He sighed. "It's as if—" He hesitated. "As if I'm being taken apart one piece at a time and I can't . . . can't stop it. I'm afraid maybe-maybe the pieces won't fit back together."

"Maybe they'll fit together better," Sarah suggested. She went to the fireplace, poked up the banked fire and replaced the firescreen.

"What are you doing?" Jim asked. "It sounds like you're in the living room."

"I am," she said, smiling. "And now I'm claiming a comfy chair so I can settle in and talk to you.'

"You make it sound like a good thing." Jim sounded bitter.

"It is," she said. "By the way, Kris asked about you."

"Kris?" That surprised him. "Really?"

"Yes. She was hoping to see you."

"I hate to destroy her girlish dreams but that won't happen anytime soon," Jim said. He was intrigued though, Sarah could tell. "Why-why was she hoping to see me?"

Sarah took a breath. She'd already talked with Darryl and they'd both agreed Jim wasn't ready to hear about Greg's wedding, not yet. They wouldn't hold the truth back much longer, but the time wasn't right. "There's a party in April and she was hoping you might show up."

"That was . . . that's nice," Jim said. He seemed a little more relaxed now. "Nice of her to think of me."

"She likes you," Sarah said softly. "Maybe you'll be able to visit eventually."

"Does she know? That I'm . . . in here?"

"I didn't say anything. You know I wouldn't do that without your permission," Sarah said gently. "I'm sure Kris would understand anyway."

Jim gave a bark of laughter, cold and harsh. "Don't count on it. No one else has so much as acknowledged I'm alive since I arrived."

"That could be because Nolan wants you to decompress for a while." Sarah chose her words carefully, doing her best to gauge Jim's receptiveness. "You need time to think about things."

"Yeah." He sighed. "This is—this is—it's hard, Sare. It hurts . . . it hurts so much."

"I know," she said, speaking the truth, knowing he'd hear it in her words. "I know, babe."

"No platitudes." He laughed again, but this time it was a little more relaxed. "I can always count on you and House. All harsh reality, all the time."

Sarah chuckled. "You wouldn't want it any other way."

"Yeah." She heard him swallow. "I don't know if I can do this, Sare. I don't know. This is so big."

"You're seeing the whole thing at once," Sarah said. "Look at the details, Jim. You're good at that. One detail at a time. When you feel overwhelmed you talk to Darryl, or call me if it's okay. We'll help you stay focused and figure things out."

"Okay." Jim let out a long, slow breath. "Okay. I—I can—that's—that's—I . . . okay."

"Shhh," she said, knowing he was distressed on all levels by the severity and incoherence of his stammer. "I want you to think about something else now. Close your eyes and remember a favorite place. How about that summer we went to the shore? You loved the house in Ocean City."

"Ocean City," he said, sounding startled. "My _god_, Sare. I haven't thought about that in years." He gave a little chuckle. "Only a block from the beach. We worked so hard to save up the money for two weeks in August."

"And it was the hottest two weeks of the year," Sarah said, smiling. "We almost burned our feet off through our flipflops, going across the sand to the water."

"We saw dolphins that first day," Jim said. "I bought you sunglasses on the boardwalk because you forgot yours."

"Remember the first slice of Mack and Manco pizza?"

"First cold beer on the porch that evening."

"First walk on the beach the next morning, after we did some dancing in the sheets." Sarah closed her eyes for a moment when he laughed, a real laugh this time.

"Yeah," he said after a time. "That's a good place. Thanks."

"Gene and I go to Cape May in September," Sarah said. "Maybe we could do OC instead this year. You'd be welcome to come with us, if you're ready."

"I'd like that," Jim said. "I'd really like that." He was silent a moment. "Love you, Sare."

"Love you babe," Sarah said, her throat tight around the lump in it. "Sleep well. Call if you need me."

"I will. Good night." And he was gone. She relaxed in the chair and tipped her head back, memories playing in her mind's eye like a movie, the creak of a porch swing and the warmth in Jim's dark eyes, and how he had opened her to the all the things she felt now with Gene. After a time she stood and went upstairs, thinking of hot sand under her feet and sunlight gleaming on blue water.

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, please leave a review. It would really make my day. _**


	11. Chapter 11

**_(A/N: once again I'd like to thank everyone who has added my stories or me to their Alerts and Favorites lists. It means a great deal to me; I'm deeply honored and humbly grateful. Your reviews and comments are always welcome._**

**_This chapter is for mmgage, who suggested it in a conversation we had last week. And btw, if you're a Doctor Who fan or just like good fic check out her new story, _The Doctor, the Nurse, and the Queen._ It's a great read!_**

**_You also might want to check out Gertrude2034's new fic, _Picking Up the Pieces. _Great OC romance as always!__  
_**

**_Finally, I highly recommend clp66's new story in the _Susan Chronicles _series, _Lesson's Learned. _A good fic with an OC who will surprise you! -B)  
_**

_February 19th_

_2:33 a.m._

Greg lies awake in the darkness. The house is quiet now, aside from the occasional creak of settling timbers or the crackle and pop of the banked fire in his fireplace, a sound that's become familiar over time, and is often comforting. Next to him his woman sleeps, her deep, even breathing a steady counterpoint to the faint moan of wind outside the window. It's warm under the covers and he's fairly comfortable all things considered, but he's feeling restless, on edge. Earlier he listened to Sarah playing guitar from the living room. The sweet, melancholy sound usually eases his soul in a way he doesn't know how to describe.

But not tonight.

If he's honest with himself—and he can't be anything else, no matter how he dodges and weaves and spars with others most of the time—he's afraid. Terrified, actually. He contemplates the weeks ahead and feels a cold sweat break out, both metaphorically and literally. Lying here in the dark, he stares up at the ceiling and wonders just how he'll fuck things up this time around. Because he will, he knows it. With a sort of gallows-humor fatalism he conducts a differential on his life to date.

Childhood: not that he's really accountable for his actions before twenty-four months or so, since at that point in the proceedings widdle baby Greggie wasn't capable of doing more than eating, drinking, eliminating, babbling nonsense and flailing around aimlessly (though he has a suspicion his old team thinks he sprang fully grown out of Cuddy's capacious womb with a dry erase marker in one hand and a bottle of Vicodin in the other, a notion he did nothing to discourage back in the day), but nevertheless he managed to alienate both parents at an exceptionally early age—his non-father more so of course. Still, there's still a huge gulf of reserve between him and his mother and it's down to his basic personality, which hasn't changed all that much over the course of fifty-some years.

Youth: few to no friends, partly due to shuffling from base to base, but once more the shibboleth of ye olde personal character rears its shaggy, uncouth head. As far back as he can remember he's found being with people a general annoyance, pointless and draining; things haven't changed much in the interim.

Post-adolescence: managing college, medical school and the licensing board after a couple of truly spectacular expulsions took most of his time and attention, not to mention calling in favors and bending enough laws to leave him without blackmail opportunities later. Everything else is lost in a haze of alcohol, pot and other controlled-substance abuses typical of the era. When you're young you think you'll live forever, and he was no exception to that idiotic if enjoyable mindset.

Relationships, aka the Nuclear Mine Field: nothing's ever lasted with anyone-the one night stand with Cuddy, his time with Stacy, hell, even his friendship with Wilson. A case might be made for Stacy being around still if the infarction had never happened, but he doubts that would have proven accurate. He's found familiarity always breeds contempt on both sides, to put it in charitable terms. It's only a matter of time with Roz, undoubtedly; why he'd proposed is still a mystery that plagues him. It was complete madness to try to solve her inadequacies with a binding contract, as time will certainly prove.

Career: it should be called what it is—Serial Fuckups 'R' Me. Fired or resigned from several practices in Boston, Philly and Princeton . . . Yes, if he's honest that last one was partly because of the infarction and the recovery/rehab involved afterward, but the fact still remains that even before the surgeons carved out most of his right quadriceps he was unemployable until Cuddy took pity on him and created a little fortress called the Department of Diagnostic Medicine at PPTH. Despite her generosity he's nearly taken the department down with him several times-during Vogler's attempted reign of terror, Tritter's scorched earth vendetta, and the downward spiral after Kutner's death, and Amber's.

_Dirty seawater, _that sly, knowing voice purrs in his memory, and Greg shivers. With a sigh he carefully lifts up the covers and eases out of bed.

"Mmmm . . ." Roz stretches. "You okay?" Her sleepy murmur holds true concern, and it warms him for just a moment.

"Go back to sleep," he says softly. She snuggles in as he places the bedclothes around her before he puts on his bathrobe and limps out of the room.

Much to his surprise, Sarah is still downstairs. The tv is on with the sound low; there's an Astaire-Rogers movie playing, it looks like _Swing Time_. Sarah is curled up on the couch close to the television bundled into her green silk robe, her curls contained in a messy braid. She looks tired, but her gaze is alert as he sits in his easy chair next to her.

"Can't sleep?" he asks. She nods.

"Too restless," she says. "I thought maybe Fred and Ginger would make me feel better."

"How's it going?" He settles back, feeling a little more relaxed already.

"Eh. I'll give it another hour before I take a pill," she says. Greg smirks. She's a total Puritan about taking meds—she even balks at ibuprofen.

"I need to talk with you," he says.

"Okay," Sarah says. "Hang on a minute." She gets up and goes to the fireplace. A few minutes later there's a nice blaze going, sending a comforting ripple of warmth into the room. Sarah comes back and sits down. He likes the fact that she doesn't fidget or sigh or fill up the silence with talk when she discusses things with him. She simply listens, waiting for him to speak.

"I'm gonna fuck this up," he says finally.

Any other person would spout clichés and reassurances. Sarah just says "Go on."

"I've made a total mess of everything that's gone before," he says. A cold line of sweat crawls down his spine. "No one's going to come all the way to upstate New York to see me when there are plenty of places on the East Coast alone to give them what they need. As for Roz . . ." He is silent a moment, struggling for words. "She's delusional," he says. Sarah tilts her head.

"Continue," she says, smiling. He glares at her for using his own style against him, but he catches the humor of it too.

"Smartass," he growls. "Nothing else to say."

"Icebergs show only about five per cent of their bulk above water," Sarah says. "That's why they're so damn dangerous." She sits back a bit, settling in.

"They like to roll over too," Greg points out. "You want me to take that metaphor literally?"

"Tell me more," she says, ignoring his jibe. "What makes you think you're gonna fuck this up?"

"Maybe because I've done it with every important event in my life," he says, fighting annoyance.

"Okay, let's take things one by one," Sarah says. "Why do you believe no one will come to see you when you open your practice?"

"Cuddy did me a favor by creating the Diagnostics department," he says, an oblique reply he knows she will understand.

"Is that a factoid or just something you worked out for yourself?" Sarah raises her brows when he snorts. "I'm being serious."

"Can you honestly tell me any hospital would take me on?" he says.

"No, not every hospital would take you," she says. "Just the ones who want to boost their cachet to world-class status. I mean it," she says when he groans. "Why do you think you're the only curmudgeon with a medical license? I've met plenty of doctors who could easily compete with you when it comes to bedside manner and general behavior." She gives him a speculative look. "Anyway, do you really think Cuddy would have created and kept Diagnostics going if she wasn't going to gain substantially by doing so?"

"I know you don't like her, but there's more to Cuddy than just ripping the heads off her male consorts and playing phone tag with donors," he says.

"I get that. She's a very savvy businesswoman, and she knew by landing you and creating a department based on your brilliance she'd jack PPTH's reputation into the stratosphere. Yes, you cost her money, time and aggravation and I'm sure she's got more grey hairs and incipient ulcers than she likes to admit to because of your tactics, but I can guarantee you she made far more profit for her hospital by attracting donors and patients from all over the place because of your success rate and diagnostic genius. Not to mention the papers your fellows have published that have created quite the stir in some circles." She leans forward. "Don't sell yourself short, Greg. If you're starting your own business, the first thing you do is list your assets. You have several. Right at the top of the list is a world-class reputation. It's priceless. And it will bring people to you."

"If I build it they will come," he says. Sarah smiles a little.

"Exactly."

He decides to move on. "Roz."

"You're worried about marrying her because you think she'll want out," Sarah says.

"I've never been able to sustain a long-term relationship," he says. "Now I'm signing a binding contract for life. It's insanity at its finest."

"Why did you propose?"

He is silent a few moments. _Put up or shut up_, he thinks. "She was . . . she was giving me a line of total bullshit about how she's not good enough to be a doctor's wife, and it . . . it pissed me off," he says, a half-lie winning out over total truth. "I don't _care_ about that kind of thing. I am what I am, she is what she is, what difference does it make?"

"You didn't live in the same small town all your life," Sarah says quietly. "She's been brought up to believe she's secondhand goods because she's illegitimate and her mother sleeps around."

"So what? I'm a bastard too. Don't start," he warns. Sarah sends him a humorous look.

"I wasn't going to say anything," she says mildly. "You wanted to reassure her that your love is genuine, so you suggested altering your relationship in a way that would make it permanent. I don't see any problems so far."

"The word 'permanent' have fairly negative connotations in my life," he says. "Not to mention being impossible. I've never been able to sustain a relationship past five years."

"So you think you'll marry Roz and at some magical interval, she'll announce she's had enough, pack her bags and leave you in her dust?" Sarah laughs softly. "At the risk of inflating your sizable ego even further, I'll just say you've never seen the way she looks at you when she thinks no one else is watching."

"She doesn't do that," he scoffs.

"Oh yes she does. You're it for her," Sarah says. Greg hears an echo of his own statement to Roz. It's a little too close to home, so he takes refuge in more ridicule.

"So you're saying twoo wuv is the magic Krazy Glue that'll hold us together?" He gives a derisive snort. "I've had the feeling on occasion that you got your degree from a Crackerjack box. Now I have proof."

"I'm saying you'll have bad days. You'll both fight with each other, say terrible things, you'll sleep on the couch and she'll throw things—"

"Wait a minute," he says, alarmed. "What do you mean, throw things?"

"I take it she hasn't gotten that mad at you yet," Sarah says. Greg stares at her. She offers an innocent smile. "Something to look forward to, then."

"Oh _swell_."

"The point is," Sarah plows on, "the knowledge that you love each other doesn't mean you won't have rough patches. It means you'll have incentive to stick around and work things out." She leans back a bit, watching him. "Do you think she's secondhand?"

"Of course not," he snaps. "She's ten times better than the rubes in this backwater blink town."

"You think she's stupid?"

He sighs. "I get the point."

"Answer the question. Do you think she's stupid?"

"She's not Einstein but she's got a good brain and she uses it correctly most of the time. Considering she's female, that's high praise," he growls. "I'm beginning to wonder about you though."

"Would you be ashamed to have her at your side when famous people come to visit?" Sarah says, unperturbed by his jab.

"Because my first inclination would be to lock her in the cellar when the President stops by for a brewskie." Greg rubs a hand over his face. "It's all about appearances with me, obviously."

"Then you have your answer. You love her for herself, you want to be with her, and you know she needs the reassurance a marriage contract will give her. It'll be good for you too," Sarah says. "I never wanted to get married. I always thought I'd have a series of relationships, just sort of run through men until I got too old for anyone to look at me anymore. When Gene proposed . . ." She glances at the tv screen for a moment, where Ginger is singing 'A Fine Romance' to a reluctant Fred. "It took him a month to get me to say yes."

"You turned him down?" Greg's intrigued despite himself.

"I told him he was out of his mind," Sarah says. "Why the hell would he want a permanent tie to someone like me? I was a red-headed stepchild, literally. Just a messed-up grad student, struggling with my doctoral dissertation and still in analysis. I had no self-esteem and didn't want to get wrapped up in another relationship because I'd just come out of one that hurt both me and the other person . . ."

"Wilson," Greg says, and Sarah nods.

"I felt like I had nothing to offer because I was still grieving over what I'd thought was lost. Gene showed me otherwise. So let Roz show you what she has to offer," Sarah says softly. "Show her what you have too."

"Put our chips on the table and ante up," he says, and can't help but smile at the image.

"Something like that," Sarah says. "There's more going on here though. Sit down," she says when he starts to get up.

"Dammit," he complains, but does as she tells him.

"Somehow I don't think this is as much about Roz's feelings of inadequacy as it is about yours," Sarah says. "You have this idea planted in your head that you were born to screw things up."

"Maybe it's there because it's true," Greg says. "Ever think of that?"

"Ever think it's a self-fulfilling prophecy?"

"Oh balls," he says, disgusted. "Don't even start with the 'wishing will make it so' swill."

Sarah tilts her head at him. "What I find interesting is your absolute conviction that you are solely at fault in all proceedings," she says.

"I don't know why you'd think I'd believe that," he says, and even to his own ears the protest is a feeble one.

"Oh balls," she says, mocking him now, but without that nasty edge he's received from so many other people over the years; it still surprises him to find it missing. "You worship the notion like it's religion."

"Hey," he says, "no need for insults."

"Calls 'em as I sees 'em, son," she says, and her genuine if baffling affection for him shines through. "You are not responsible for all the failings, broken promises or disasters that have occurred in your life. But knowing you, you'll want an accounting for every single one of 'em. So let's go down the list, shall we? Start at the beginning."

Now this is an approach he can appreciate, though he would only take it with her; Sarah's proven herself trustworthy. "My dad hated me," he says, settling in with his scorecard in hand, so to speak.

"Some of that's misplaced anger and jealousy, I think. Some of it was his inability to understand you, how you work, how you think and feel. Some of it was just basic personality differences." Sarah gives him a stern look, though her eyes are twinkling. "Not everyone's gonna love you, sweetie. Hate to say it but it's true."

"Damn." He looks at his hands. "Mom."

"Your mother has her own problems that have nothing to do with you. I have a strong suspicion she was sheltered and held back during her early years—many women were, in her generation—and when she left home she looked for someone strong enough to keep on sheltering her. She mistook a show of force for strength because she didn't know any better, and by the time she found out the difference it was too late to back out, or so she thought anyway. Things were different then, divorce was a last resort and to be avoided at all costs, if not downright unthinkable." Some of the amusement fades from Sarah's gaze. "She's working through her issues and discovering things she'd rather not know. I don't think she'll ever be able to face what happened while you were growing up, Greg. That's not your fault. It's just who she was then, and is now."

"School," he says, unwilling to admit he'll consider what she's said about his parents.

"Why did you cheat?"

"See, everyone leads off with that question," he says. "The cheating isn't the main thing."

Sarah raises her brows, but not in shock, only in inquiry. "So what is?"

"That's what I like about you," Greg says. "No hypocrisy, no cries of outrage. Morally ambiguous, just the way shrinks ought to be."

"Stop stalling and answer the question," she says, the amusement back now. He pretends to ponder, watching her out of the corner of his eye.

"'What is' are the events that led me to cheat," he says finally.

"And they were?"

"I just . . . needed to do it. Personality flaw, which brings us—"

"You don't just need to do something, Gregory." Sarah says it flat and calm.

"Uh oh, you used my full name," he says, pretending to cower.

"Just about everything you do and say has a purpose, and as far as I can see from extensive observation, that purpose is to strip away the lies and illusions people wear and find the plain, flabby, stretch-marked cellulite beneath the pretty clothes." She gives him a level look. "So why did you cheat?"

_Busted._ He takes a perverse satisfaction in the fact that she's figured it out; he knew she would. "I wanted to prove a point." Sarah says nothing, just waits for him to continue. He sighs. "The instructor hadn't changed the test for over twenty years. He put copies of the damn thing in the library, for god's sake."

"Standard practice and you know it," Sarah says when he falls silent. "What else?"

"What else is there? He wasn't keeping up with advances. Even the crappy textbooks we were forced to use had changed to some extent, and the exam didn't fit the information we'd learned." He folds his arms. "What's the fucking point of going through the bullshit of taking a test if it's just a damn joke?"

"You can't possibly have been so naïve, and don't expect me to be either," Sarah says, a sardonic tone in her voice now. "I'd expect that kind of noise from a first year medical student straight out of East Bumfuck, not someone who'd probably been around the block a number of times already even then. So there's more, isn't there?" She narrows her eyes. "What did the instructor do to piss you off?"

"Besides being a senile old fossil who felt up his secretary every chance he got and didn't know a kidney from a big toe?" Greg snorted.

"You were just jealous." At his snort she gives him a level stare. "What. Else."

He grips his arms and stares at her. "He threatened me." Sarah looks back but says nothing. "He found out I was running a nice little side business, selling exam answers. Well, they made it easy," he says when she stays silent. "It's not like I forced anyone to hand me money. I just put the word out."

"And he wanted a piece of the action," Sarah says.

"Eighty-twenty split with him getting eighty, the greedy bastard. So I cheated. When the committee brought me in for interrogation, I showed them the whole thing. They ended up putting the old fart up for immediate retirement," he says, and feels a faint glimmer of satisfaction at the thought even now.

"There's still a bigger picture here," Sarah says. "What is it?"

Greg smirks. "You tell me," he says. She thinks about it for a few moments.

"Exposing a corrupted corrupt system," she says at last. "Buying exam answers is an old and time-honored method of earning money and advancing toward a degree, but you took offense at the ease with which it was happening in this particular case, and also the arrogance of the parties involved when you moved into their turf." She considers; he waits. "And you wanted the professor replaced with someone who would update the course."

"I take back the snotty remark about your doctorate," he says. "You bought yours at Grant's."

Sarah grins at this ancient joke. "So you are a goody two shoes after all," she says.

"No need for nasty language," he says. "You can't tell me I wasn't at fault with this one."

"I never said you were completely blameless," Sarah says. "You're as human as anyone else. You just assume everything's your fault, when in plain point of fact you're an ordinary sinner just like the rest of us."

"Why do I stay to listen to these cruel slurs?" He sighs. "Career."

"We've discussed this before," Sarah says. "Most people are not going to understand the way you think."

"And that excuses everything," Greg says. Sarah gives him a long, considering look.

"'Which I wish to remark,/and my language is plain,/that for ways that are dark/and for tricks that are vain,/Doctor Gregory House is peculiar,/which the same I would rise to explain,'" she quotes, and succeeds in making him chuckle.

"Trust you to know Bret Harte," he says.

"To put it mildly, your methods run counter to the way most organizations want their workplaces administered," Sarah says. "But then you wouldn't have the phenomenal success rate you can claim if you followed the rules. To her credit, Cuddy knew that. She reaped the reward for her ability to see past the apparent insanity to the results. No one else managed it. Their loss." She shrugs. "If you want to win big, you have to take big risks. You're an enormously extravagant, in-your-face risk by the standards of the average workplace, which makes it hard for committees and boards to see past that to the enormous rewards waiting on the other side." She pauses. "Looking at what you do in terms of right and wrong is deliberately ignoring one other important factor."

"Which is?" He knows, but he wants to see if she does.

"What needs to be done to get the diagnosis," she says with a slight smile. Of course she understands, in her own way; she's not focused on the puzzle so much as trying to help the patient find healing, something that doesn't involve him once the diagnosis is made, but she still gets it. She opened her home and personal life to him and gave him a chance to repair his brokenness, to whatever extent that's been done; she understands the method perfectly.

"Relationships," he says, and dread fills him. Sarah folds her hands over her middle.

"You are capable of loving and being loved," she says quietly. "You were convinced at an early age that you were unlovable and unloving. It wasn't true then, and it isn't true now."

"There speaks the incurable Polyanna in you," he says. "You see all people are redeemable. It's in your best interest because it's how you earn a paycheck."

"Oh, I could dig up plenty of reasons to find you unlovable, if I wanted to do so," Sarah says. She is still watching him, her sea-green eyes glinting. "I won't belabor you with moments from our past. I'll just say this: I chose to forgive you because you are worth far more to me as a good friend than any chance to nurse bitterness and anger would be, and that's quite an understatement, actually. I like you, you know."

Greg rolls his eyes. "Oh, please. I'm not Wilson, clutching the phone and needing a dose of baby kittens and mawkish sentimentality to keep me from plunging over a cliff of despair."

"It is not mawkish to tell someone you like them," Sarah says. "But maybe it would be better to couch this in terms you'll feel more comfortable with." She gives him an evil smile. "Truth or Dare. In the interests of the late hour we'll limit it to two apiece. My turn first."

"Aw come on," he whines, though secretly he's amused. "We don't even have a bottle of beer to pass back and forth."

Sarah says nothing, just watches him. He sighs. "Yeah, fine. Truth."

"Why do you think I don't really like you?"

Greg glares at Sarah. "For fuck's sake," he snaps. "That's like asking some guy 'Hey, still raping your wife?'"

"You gonna play or not?"

He grunts and looks away. "You said it yourself. I'm unlikeable."

"That is not true. I said you believe you're unlovable. So why do you think I'm lying?" Sarah won't give in on this. Greg is silent for a while, trying to find the words that will get her to back off without him revealing too much.

"I've never . . ." He hesitates. "Everything I try . . . it doesn't work. I don't know how to—to make people like me, or why I should even care if they do or not." Sarah remains silent. "What more do you want?" he says, fighting humiliation.

"I want you to know beyond the shadow of a doubt that I like you," Sarah says. "I believe Roz loves you with everything in her. When you think you have no one, you remember what I just said." She pauses. "Your turn."

Greg sits back. "Truth or Dare."

"Dare," she says promptly, surprising him.

"You sure?"

"Yup," she says.

"I dare you to tell me why you went through three tries at rehab before it took," he says.

"I wasn't ready." Sarah looks at her hands. "I had this idea in my head that I was supposed to be a wild girl, out drinkin' and druggin' and playin' the fool with any guy who wanted me. Because after all, what difference did it make? Judging by the actions of my family and my community I was nothing more than a whore, so why not act like one? Rehab was a waste of my time, until—until the baby." He sees the little flash of pain that will always accompany any talk about her doomed pregnancy. "That woke me up right smart quick, as my grandma used to say."

"You think you're unlovable too," he says quietly.

"Some days, yes," she answers readily, and he can't help but both admire and scoff at her willingness to open to him this way. "Some days I don't know why anyone bothers with me. But most of the time I know I love, and am loved." She looks at him now, and the tremendous affection for him he sees there mystifies even as it reassures. "There ain't never gonna be a magic wand you can wave over your head and get rid of all the doubts and fears you hold inside, son. You'll have your bad moments, bad days. Just let your woman love you, and love her back as best you can. That'll help you learn how to deal with other people too, it's a nice side benefit."

"You're telling me to get huggy-smoochy with everyone I meet?" He shakes his head. "Nope."

"It's not in your nature to be that way," she says easily, "nothing wrong with that. I'm saying love will show you when to cut, and when to mend. Truth or dare?"

"Dare," he says. If she can do it he can too, he's no weak sister.

"I dare you to tell me how you really feel about Roz."

Dammit, she _would_ choose that. "She's a great lay, she's willing to put out and she's not bad to look at," he says. Sarah examines her nails. "I'm a guy. You know how guys are. Hardwired for sex. Show up naked for a date, bring food, we're happy. Everything else is just noise." Silence. "You want me to say something else?"

"Tell me how you really feel about Roz," she says again. Greg rolls his eyes.

"Just did."

"There's more."

He sighs in exasperation. "I haven't even told her yet," he says, and stops. "Oh, aren't you just the _cutest_ little thing," he says.

"You might consider letting her know one of these days," she says, but he can tell by the tone of her voice it's not anything like an ultimatum—just a suggestion, no dare in it at all.

"Truth or dare," he says.

"Truth."

"How do you feel about Wilson?"

The question hangs in the air for a few seconds.

"Specify," she says.

"Oh, I just get all tingly inside when you act like a scientist," he says in a gooshy voice. Sarah rolls her eyes. "It's self-explanatory," he says. "How do you feel about little Jimmy?"

"He's my friend and I love him dearly," she says.

"Nothing left over from college days?"

"No," she says simply. "I had a huge crush on him for some time, but I wasn't in love with him. I really don't think he was with me either."

"Who's gonna tell him about the wedding?"

Sarah looks resigned. "Three guesses."

"Better you than me," Greg says under his breath. Wilson won't handle this well. "Think I'm done here." He tilts his head. "You gonna be able to sleep now?"

"I'll just crash here for a while," she says, which is Sarah-speak for 'I have to think about what we just discussed'. She is an analyst to her core, something he can respect. He nods and gets to his feet.

"Thanks," he says quietly, not looking at her.

"Any time, son," she says. "I'll see you later on. We'll have cinnamon rolls for breakfast."

He nods and heads for his room, his mind a jumble of ideas and theories to be sorted out at his leisure. He knows he is protected here too, that this home is his second fortress, one he doesn't deserve but is grateful for all the same. The knowledge accompanies him as he climbs in next to Roz and lets her curl around him, her breath soft and warm on his skin.

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined please leave a review, it would really make my day. _**


	12. Chapter 12

**_(A/N: I know this is a short chapter. Please bear with me, I'm having a lot of trouble with an arthritic knee and the meds I have to take mess with my head so it's hard to write. I'm working on a midweek extra, so hang in there. Thanks for reading, it's always much appreciated -B)_**

_February 28__th_

_5:30 p.m._

Jason was almost finished with his math homework when the front door opened and House came in.

"Doesn't it ever do anything but snow here?" He slung his backpack off his shoulder, removed his coat and shook it to get the flakes off, then headed into the living room and dumped his gear on the couch. He limped past Jason, muttering to himself as he went into the kitchen. Jason turned his attention back to his homework, only to have it captured again a few minutes later by the sound of voices raised in argument—House and Doctor Goldman. Jason had often heard House grumble at people, but to hear Doctor Goldman speak with a hard edge of irritation in her words was a first.

"No, it just so happens I haven't said anything to him yet," she was saying.

"Oh, great. What the hell am I supposed to do if he calls me? Tell him 'hey Wilson, I'm getting hitched, too bad you won't be there?'"

"Darryl and I both agree, he's not ready to hear—"

"That's bullshit! You're scared to tell him!"

"I am _not_ scared to tell him. You're projecting your own fears onto me. When the time is right—"

"Oh, so now you and _Darryl_ are the final arbiters of timing? What a joke. I bet Wilson would laugh himself sick. No wait, he's already there."

There was a pause. "I'm sorry if you've had a bad day at work but that doesn't give you permission to take it out on me, Greg." There was an ominous calm in Doctor Goldman's tone that made Jason wince, his gut tightening in apprehension. It was the calm before the storm, he knew that all too well from prior experience with his father. House seemed oblivious though, as his next statement seemed to bear out.

"I didn't have a bad day at work, it's not possible to descend past the lowest circle of hell. When you have a thousand ducks nibbling you to death, what's a dozen more? What I want to know is your contingency plan if Wilson calls, because I won't lie to him—"

"Did it ever occur to you that _I'm_ the one who'll eventually have to tell someone I love dearly, someone I'm worried _sick_ about because he's struggling with his sanity, that his best friend is getting married? And as if that's not enough, more than likely he won't be able to attend? That maybe the wedding will already be over, and no one said anything to him because he wasn't ready?" Doctor Goldman almost spat the words out. "And yet I'm a bitch because I won't just spill the beans if he calls. Bull_shit _on that!"

When House spoke again he sounded wary. "He deserves to know."

"He will know when he's capable of handling it! For your information, this is not about _your_ convenience, it's not about what _you_ want, it's about what's right for Jim and I will thank y'all for letting me take care of this how I see fit, do I make myself crystal clear?"

"I was just—"

"_Don't_." It was a flat warning. "Stop windin' me up over this, Greg. It's not open for discussion or debate. When the time is right I will tell Jim what's going on. If he calls and you think you can't handle the conversation without blurting out every single goddamn detail, then y'all give the phone to me and I'll deal with it. Got it?"

"What the hell is wrong with you?" House was growling now. "You're acting like you're on the rag or something."

There was another pause. Jason gripped his pencil, glancing at the front door and wondering if he could bolt fast enough to escape the fight that seemed ready to break out. To his surprise he found Roz standing a few feet away, listening. She was still in her coat, her gloves in one hand; she glanced at Jason and gave him a brief look, then put a finger to her lips, warning him to be silent—a caution he didn't need.

"Yeah, I'm on my moons now, how very observant of you," Doctor Goldman snapped. "So it's only fair to warn you that I know how to castrate a goat, if you catch my subtle drift. The smart move would be you ending this attempt at forcing me to do something you want, and back the fuck off right now."

"Am I supposed to be scared?"

A moment later Doctor Goldman stalked through the dining room. Her fair face was scarlet, her eyes blazing, and her hair had a sort of rusty light Jason had never seen before. She didn't acknowledge either him or Roz, just went to the stairs and climbed steadily. A moment later they heard a door slam. Roz shook her head. "Pete and repeat," she said softly, and sighed. "They hardly ever get into it but when they do . . ." She gave Jason a wink. "Wish me luck," she said, and went to the kitchen. Several minutes later House emerged. He stopped and glared, his blues eyes fierce when he saw Jason at the table watching him.

"Mind your own damn beeswax," he muttered, and continued on into the living room. The tv came to life after a few moments.

"Supper's ready," Roz said from the kitchen door. She glanced at the living room, then came over to sit down with Jason. "It's just an argument. They'll get over it."

"They sounded really mad at each other," Jason said. He fidgeted with his pencil.

"Greg tends to say what he thinks without considering the other person's feelings," Roz said. "Sarah has a temper and every now and then it shows up. This is just one of those days when the two don't mix, that's all."

Her matter-of-fact tone reassured him a little. "So everything's okay?"

"Not at the moment, but they'll work it out." Roz smiled at him. "Want some supper? I'm not gonna wait for those two. Ya snooze ya lose!"

Jason snickered and abandoned his math problems to follow her into the kitchen. They ate at the breakfast bar, something he always liked. Sitting at a dinner table held too many bad memories; he liked being perched up on a stool, it was like being at a diner, just you and your food and no one to bother you unless you wanted to talk. He liked Roz too. She didn't yak all the time or demand attention; she was pretty cool for an older lady. He liked her sense of humor too, dry and sarcastic. She always made him laugh, one of the few people who did besides Doctor Goldman or Gene.

They'd reached dessert—peach cobbler with a little ice cream on the side—when he dared to ask "Why do you like Doctor House?"

Roz gave him a shrewd but not unkind look. "He seems pretty grouchy to you, doesn't he?" Jason nodded, not willing to say anything else. "Sometimes people are more than they seem to be. You have to pay attention to what they do as well as what they say."

"Is it because his leg hurts?" he blurted out, pretty sure Roz wouldn't slap him down for another personal question.

"What, you mean the grouchiness?" Roz considered her answer. "I don't think so," she said finally. "I think it's just him." She smiled a little. "I kind of like it, actually. It's honest. A lot of people pretend to be nice when they're really jerks. Greg is who he is. You know where you stand with him, if you pay attention to the details. It isn't always easy to deal with, but that's life, you know?" She tilted her head. "You want people to take you as you are, don't you?"

That surprised him. He thought about it. "Yeah . . . I guess so."

"Then you do the same for other people." She took a sip of coffee and sat back. "I'm not the easiest person to be around sometimes, but Greg just deals with it. He doesn't always like it, but he knows it's who I am." She smiled at him. "We still get mad, but we work it out. Sarah and Greg will do that too, you'll see."

Roz was right. Much to his astonishment, Doctor Goldman came down an hour or so later and went straight to the living room. Jason was playing Hot Pursuit, but he kept an ear open—always a good idea when adults were fighting.

"I apologize," she said to House. "I'm not feeling well and I went off on you, you didn't deserve it."

"What do you mean you're not feeling well?" House's voice was sharp—not with anger, Jason realized, but worry. The two sounded very much alike, but there was a subtle difference. "What's wrong? Is it something besides Auntie Flo visiting?"

"No, I'm just—I haven't been sleeping well with Gene away," Doctor Goldman said. There was a little silence.

"Take a sedative," House said.

"I'll be all right."

Jason heard him get up, grunting a little with the effort, and stump out of the room. He came back a few moments later. "Here, take the damn pill. I'm prescribing a single dose so you get some sleep and stay out of my face."

Jason turned his head enough to watch out of the corner of his eye as Doctor Goldman accepted a glass of water and a small pill. She hesitated, then took it and drank some of the water. House didn't look at her; he settled on the couch and resumed watching tv, but his gaze strayed to her when she didn't move.

"What, there's more?" he asked, sounding put-upon.

"Thanks," Sarah said. In one quick move she bent down and kissed the top of his head, then laughed a little when he swatted at her.

"Get out of here!" He glared at her, but Jason could see his heart wasn't in it.

He thought about it later as he lay in his bed, curled up in his warm nest of sheets, blankets and comforters. The whole concept was confusing. Emotions were difficult to understand. They weren't straightforward and logical and consistent, like numbers or equations. And yet what Roz had said made sense somehow. It was something he'd have to think about, weigh against his previous experiences and the new ones too, and see if it fit her model. On that reassuring notion he closed his eyes and drifted off, his back to the wall in the comforting darkness.

**_Many thanks for reading. If you are so inclined please leave a review, it would really make my day. _**


	13. Chapter 13

**_(A/N: my apologies for not posting this in a timely way. We've had intermittent network/internet problems with the downstairs compy where I do the bulk of my writing, with a lot of time spent on the phone with IT geeks trying to get the problem solved which meant no accessibility to the computer. At any rate the problem is sort of solved, so here is the midweek chapter I promised as a TGIF chapter instead._**

**_For all those who are not into House and Roz, this is mild smut featuring the two of them. If you don't want to read it, skip it and wait for Monday. You have been warned, so no grumbling please. :)  
_**

**_Btw, if you are not reading MissBates fic you're missing out on some excellent and highly entertaining work. The first installment of her new fic, _When The Wind Is Southerly Season 6, _is hot off the presses. Check it out and leave her a review if you're so inclined. I'm planning to do so immediately after posting this chapter. _**

**_One last note: the song used for inspiration for this chapter bears listening to. Pay attention to the words in particular. Anyway, it's a great 'guilty pleasure' song that should bring back fond memories for older readers. And yes, I did have a poster of David Cassidy in my room as a tween/young teen. ;) -B)  
_**

_February 27th_

_8:30 p.m._

"I need a pen!"

Roz stuck the second plate in the dish rack and started work on the casserole dish. "Look in the top drawer!" she called.

"Duh, already did that!" Greg's scorn was palpable. "Nada, zilch, zip."

"There would be pens in the drawer if you'd put them back when you're done with them," Roz said, and scrubbed at the stuck-on cheese around the rim of the dish.

"That's irrelevant to my needs!" A muffled slamming sound followed his words. Roz rolled her eyes.

"There are pens in the nightstand by the bed," she said. There was a pause, then the familiar hesitant gait she'd come to know so well traveled across the living room and down the hall. Roz waited, but no further comments were forthcoming. She continued her work on the casserole dish, getting the last of the food scoured off before she added soap and began to scrub.

It had been a good day; they'd gone out to look at the Widmeyer place, exploring it thoroughly. Greg had prowled through rooms, getting a feel for the layout while she'd examined the wiring and checked structural elements; they'd searched for water leaks, termites, settling—anything they could think of, and had been pleasantly surprised to find the building was in decent shape for its age. Some renovation would be needed to open up the interior, but the biggest plus was everything on one floor. Greg had liked what he'd seen, she knew by the way he fired questions at her on the way home. Roz smiled to herself. _One step closer to the clinic,_ she thought, and hugged the knowledge to herself the same way she did her secret dreams about their forthcoming wedding.

She was just finishing up the final batch of silverware when Greg appeared in the doorway.

"Find what you were looking for?" Roz rinsed a handful of forks.

"What the hell is this?" There was an odd tone in his voice. Roz glanced over. He held up something that was definitely not a pen. She paused, not quite sure what to say.

"It's a g-spot vibrator," she replied finally. "Um, you can't write with that, you know."

"A vibrator." Greg gave her a speculative look. "There was more than one."

"Variety is the spice of life." She dried her hands on the towel by the oven and turned to him. "Did you find a pen?"

"What's the matter, I'm not enough for you?" He mock-glared at her, but she could sense some anxiety behind the play-acting. "You have to keep a whole drawerful of toys around in case you don't get what you need with me?"

Roz stared at him, surprised. "I bought them years ago," she said. She walked toward him and plucked the vibrator out of his hand. "I didn't have a boyfriend and I'm a healthy woman who likes sex. You're gonna tell me you're shocked? Because if you are, I have to say right now I think you're full of it." She tilted her head. "Are you telling me you don't have a stash of porn by your bedside or on your computer that you still look through, even though we're having sex more than six times a week?"

He had the grace to look a little embarrassed, though he tried to hide it with a glare. "It's not—I don't—what's your point?"

"I haven't used a vibrator since we started making love. I don't need them now," she said quietly. "They served a purpose when I was alone. I'm not anymore. You give me everything, _amante_."

"Your touching statement is completely nullified by the presence of this thing in your nightstand drawer," Greg said. For answer Roz walked to the trash can.

"Nice knowing you, Doc Johnson," she said, and dropped the vibrator into the can. She moved past Greg to the bedroom, collected the two other vibrators, went back into the kitchen and dumped them as well.

"So why were they still in the drawer?" Greg asked, obviously unimpressed by her actions.

"I forgot they were there," Roz said. When Greg snorted she gave him an exasperated look. "I'm not kidding. You think I've been using them behind your back or something?" The light dawned. "Because then maybe you wouldn't have to account for the fact that you still use porn to jack off when I'm not around, is that it?"

The sudden flare of defiance tinged with guilt in those vivid blue eyes almost made her smile. "Whoever told you that was lying."

"You know, I do wash the bedsheets at both houses," she said. "And your clothes now and then." She resisted the urge to give him a hard time, knowing it would only make him feel more insecure and defensive. Instead she walked up to him and kissed his cheek. "It's okay," she whispered, and smiled, letting her lips brush his skin. "Let's watch some tv."

Quite clearly he'd expected a scolding or lecture, or at least disapproval. He followed her into the living room and sat next to her on the couch but he was tense, fidgety. Roz turned on the television and settled back with remote in hand. "Anything on tonight?" she asked.

"Why don't you care about this?" Greg asked. He sounded pissed off, but Roz knew it was more anxiety than anger. If he was mad he'd be less obviously emotional and far more serious.

"I do care," she said. "But I also know you need more than I can give you, right now anyway."

She'd just thrown him another curveball. Roz hid a smile at his groan of frustration. "Am I taking all the fun out of it?" she asked, struggling not to laugh.

"_Yes!_" He grabbed the remote out of her hand and glared at her. She looked down, biting her lip. "You're not gonna cry, are you?" He rolled his eyes. "You're making me rethink the whole idea of marrying you if . . ." He stopped and peered at her. "Oh, _nice_," he said, sounding offended.

"If you want me to be mad I can do that," she said, and knew the quiver in her voice was adding fuel to the fire, but she couldn't help it, it was _funny_.

"I'm glad you're amused," Greg said. The coldness in his tone warned her he was becoming truly angry now. With a sigh she stood up, struggling to keep a straight face.

"Fine. I'm going to bed. If you want to sleep out here it's up to you. There's extra pillows and blankets in the linen closet." She put a bit of stiffness in her words. "Good night." She marched off to the bedroom and closed the door quietly behind her before she gave in to silent laughter.

"You're not hiding anything!" Greg bellowed from the living room. "It's not nice to mock your significant other, you know!"

Of course that only made things worse; she ended up on the bed in absolute hysterics at the predictability of the fragile male ego, her face stuffed in a pillow to stifle her giggles. Eventually she wound down to the occasional chuckle, thinking about the situation. Maybe she was weird, but it really didn't bother her that he looked at porn. Okay, she wished her breasts were bigger or she had more curves instead of straight lines, but most people wanted to change something about themselves, and anyway she didn't blame Greg for liking big boobs or a nice butt. In the end he came home to her, and that was all she cared about.

She was on the verge of dozing off when the bedroom door opened. Greg stood in the doorway. Roz sat up a little, blinking.

"Done laughing at me?" Affront dripped from every syllable, but the gleam in his eyes belied the frost in his tone.

She smiled. "I guess so."

After a moment he limped over and sat down next to her. He held something out. "Here." She saw it was the g-spot vibrator. "Show me how you use it."

Roz made no move to take it. "I really hope you washed it first."

He nodded and thrust the vibrator at her. "Show me."

Gingerly Roz took it. It felt a little strange to sit in front of him with it in her hand. Her cheeks grew warm as she checked the base. It could be a bit temperamental if the cap was tightened too much and the batteries weren't aligned right, but when she turned it on it started up. She smiled at the familiar buzz and slipped her tee shirt off before she pressed the vibrator gently to her body, bringing the rounded head in contact with her left breast. She slowly ran it around the outside of her aureole, sighing as her nipples tightened, and reached out to the cube radio next to the bed. Music began to play softly.

"Oh, you've got to be fucking _kidding_ me," Greg said. He sounded as if he was trying not to laugh. "_David Cassidy?_"

"Shut up, I like this song," Roz said, and drew the vibrator down her belly, circling her abdomen as the music wound on. She felt her clitoris give a little throb and gasped softly. She moved the head along her inner thigh as she spread her legs. As many times as she'd made love to Greg, she couldn't look at him directly. It felt strange to have him there watching her doing this very private thing, his vivid gaze intent, glittering as she brought the vibrator up over her clitoris, keeping it there until the first faint pulses of pleasure began to build. When she slipped it inside herself Greg made a sound like a groan, and Roz glanced at him. He was absolutely huge, rubbing his erection through the rough fabric of his jeans, and somehow that made her own growing need skyrocket. With her free hand she reached out to him.

"Come here," she said, smiling at the unintentional double entendre. He blinked; then he stood up, ditched his jeans, and clambered into bed beside her. She took his hand and put it on the handle of the vibrator. "Do me," she whispered, and gasped as he found her g-spot with unerring accuracy. With his free hand he began to tease her clitoris, stroking her prepuce with his callused fingertip as sweetness gathered and rolled over her in a pulsing wave. When she came she closed her eyes, assaulted by intense pleasure on every side.

"_Greg_ . . . oh my god . . ."

He didn't stop, only pushed her on to a second orgasm even more powerful than the first one, so overwhelming she finally put her hands over his and lifted them away, pulling the vibrator out.

"Please," she said, barely able to speak, "please . . . I don't want that, I want _you_."

When he slid inside her she was ready for him but still whimpered a little when he rubbed her swollen clitoris with his shaft. He paused, looking down at her with a bit of worry.

"Are you-?"

"I'm fine, _please!_" she groaned, writhing underneath him to pull a pillow over her left leg. He made a noise that could have been a chuckle and plunged in with enthusiasm. They'd figured out a way for him to use something approximating the missionary position if she put one of the thinner pillows over her left thigh; it allowed him to rest his weight on her without crushing her while offering enough support to thrust without tightening the muscle too much. Though they enjoyed being inventive both of them liked the closeness this way of lovemaking gave them, the ability to watch each other as they both came. And Roz liked having Greg above her, enjoying his surrender to the pleasure they created together.

Afterward, as they lay together, he picked up the vibrator and looked at it. "We shouldn't get rid of the Doc," he said. Roz snorted.

"So now I have to play with him while you watch or you can't get it up?" She turned it on and put it to his left nipple. Greg jumped.

"What the-!"

She lifted the covers and gently pressed the head to the base of his genitals. Greg froze, the look on his face priceless. Roz giggled.

"Pull it out deeper?" she suggested.

"God, that feels . . . good, but really _weird_," he said, and the tone of confused wonder made her laugh even harder. He reached down and took the vibrator away, then turned it over. "How the hell do you turn it off?"

She showed him how the base twisted, shut it off and tossed it over the side of the bed. "I have something so much better now," she said, and snuggled in with her head on his chest. Greg chuckled.

"Good to know I'm better than a pocket rocket. And no double A batteries needed," he said. "Although I heard once someone tried putting two of them up their—"

"Oh hush," she said, snorting with laughter. "Pervert."

"Absolutely." He brought her close with his long arms. After a moment he said, "I'm sleeping, and right in the middle of a good dream, like all at once I wake up . . ."

After a moment Roz caught onto the game. "From something that keeps knocking at my brain; before I go insane I put my pillow to my head . . ."

"And spring up in my bed, screaming out the words I dread—" He stopped when she smacked him lightly. "It's just the lyrics. You started it, I didn't choose that stupid song."

She stroked the spot she'd smacked and settled in once more, sighing a little as he held her. "Do you think I have a case?" she said after a time. Greg grunted.

"Hmm . . ." His hands slid over her, rubbing gently. "I think I love you," he said, and buried his nose in her hair. Roz's heart swelled with tenderness. She kissed the corner of his chin. After a moment she felt him smile just a little.

"Go to sleep," he grumbled, but his smile widened. Roz's toes curled with pure, undiluted happiness. Within the circle of his arms she drifted off, wondering if she dared to use the song for the first dance at the reception.

_'I Think I Love You,' David Cassidy/The Partridge Family_

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, please leave a review. It would really make my day. _**


	14. Chapter 14

_March 4th_

_10 a.m._

When the call came in, she knew what it meant. Sarah stared at the caller ID. _Just do it, Corbett. Take the call. _She pressed the button. "Hey Darryl," she said.

"Sarah," Nolan said. "Hope you're well."

"You too," Sarah said. "Is—is Jim there with you?"

"Always the direct approach," Nolan said, and he was smiling, she could tell.

"I learned from the best," Sarah said. "So should I say hello to Jim as well?"

"No, he's in group at the moment." Nolan exhaled softly. "He's ready, Sare. He had something of a breakthrough a few days ago." He paused. "It still won't be easy for him. There's a lot of bitterness and resentment. I have to warn you, he may dump quite a bit of it your way. Are you sure you want to be the one to tell him?"

Sarah felt her gut tighten. "I'm sure. Will you allow him to call me?"

"Yes. It won't be a supervised call. He tends to open up more if he feels he's not under scrutiny. Can you handle it if he gets amped?"

She nodded. "Yes. Tell him he can call—call anytime. I'll be here."

"Sare." Nolan said it quietly. Sarah closed her eyes at the gentle concern in that one word.

"I'll be okay," she said. "I might need a three-hankie movie and a shot of Maker's afterward, but I'll be okay."

Nolan chuckled. "Pretty good recovery plan. All right, I'll let James know he can call you when he's ready."

"How are you with all this?" Sarah sat on the edge of the couch. "Sounds like things have been intense. And no, I'm not fishing."

"I know you're not." Nolan was silent a moment. "I won't lie, Sarah. It's been a difficult process. James has quite a number of remarkably effective methods of deflection and evasion at his disposal, which says a lot about his childhood and youth."

"He was the invisible child, I think," Sarah said. "He never spoke much about his family when we were in college, but he struggled with trying to complete a massive load of credits and take care of his brother Danny at the same time. His parents seemed to think it was his duty. I don't know if it's true or not, but I always had the feeling they thought of Jim as Danny's companion, that Jim would take care of him for the rest of his life."

"That's been my impression as well," Nolan said, and Sarah heard the unspoken message: _he confirmed it in session._ "That's a huge burden even for an adult with the resources to cope."

"He's always tried to be everything to everyone," Sarah said. Her heart ached at the memory of Jim lying curled around her in their bed, his face pressed to her breast, her skin wet with his tears. "I hope he's learning he can just be himself."

"We're headed in that direction," Nolan said. "And I'll leave it there. He'll probably call sometime in the next hour or two."

"Okay." Sarah ran her hand over the soft cotton of the woven throw folded over the back of the couch. "Okay."

She couldn't settle after that, so she put Shelby Lynne on the CD player, cranked it up and set about making some bread; they were nearly out, so it was a productive way to occupy her time. Once the yeast had started to proof she got the bottle of Glenlivet from the cupboard and poured herself a finger's worth in a glass tumbler, took a sip. The sweet smoky fire tasted good; she savored the feeling, the sense of life in her body, pulse and breath and the little ache in her hip that accompanied her most of the time now, and claimed all of it as hers. She was here, she was alive, she was as well and whole as time and attention could make her, and she was going to cause hurt to someone she loved in order for him to feel what she was feeling—the immediacy of living.

"I got your message on the phone," Shelby sang. Sarah couldn't help a wry smile.

"Sing it, honey babe," she said, and set down the whiskey to make the bread dough.

The call came in just after lunch. The loaves were shaped and in their second rise, ready to be brushed with wash; Sarah was beating the eggs when she heard the ringer. Her gut clenched, but she picked up and took the call.

"Hello Jim," she said, and sat down. Her hands gripped the receiver.

"Sarah," Jim said. He sounded a little subdued. "How—how are you?"

"I'm good," she said. "How's it going?"

"Let's not do the dance," he said. "Let's—let's just get to it. Darryl said you had something to tell me."

"Yeah." Sarah paused. _Do it, Corbett. Get it over with._ "Greg's getting married."

There was a long silence. "I see," Wilson said. "Why did Darryl want you to tell me?"

"He felt it would be better coming from a friend," Sarah said.

"You mean he thought you'd be better at buttering me up or—or keeping me calmed down or something." Jim drew an unsteady breath. "How—how long ago did House propose?"

"A couple of weeks," Sarah said.

"So where do they have their registry? I can send a gift, even if I'm not invited." The pain under the bitter sarcasm made her wince; she knew he'd take this as a stab to the heart.

"You have an open invitation, but you know as well as I do you're not ready," she said quietly.

"Don't tell me what I'm ready or not ready for! You're not the one going through the-the damn grindstones—well not _this_ time anyway." Jim's poke at her hit hard. Sarah flinched but kept her voice calm.

"I won't be anything less than honest with you, Jim. You're still in the process of finding out who you really are under all the layers you've put on to protect yourself. There's a lot of anger and pain in those layers. Watching someone else find the happiness you've been looking for will not sit well right now to say the least, and you'll do things you will regret later."

"That's a hell of a thing to say!" Jim's voice vibrated with outrage and hurt.

"It's the truth," Sarah said. "I know part of you is happy for Greg; he's your friend, and you care about him. But another part is bewildered at the gains he's made, and jealous of the life he's creating for himself. Tell me I'm wrong."

Another silence. "So you're afraid if I come up there I'll go berserk and trash the ceremony or something?"

"I'm afraid you'll take away the wrong conclusion," Sarah said.

"Oh, please enlighten me," Jim snapped.

"I know you, babe. You'll look at all the joy around you and start making plans to work harder, please more people, spread yourself so thin you'll disappear, just so you can grab some of that happiness for yourself somehow." She pulled a lock of hair free from her ponytail and twined it around her finger. "It doesn't work that way. You have to know who you are first before you can be with someone else and create a real relationship together, and even then it's probably going to take a few tries before you find the right person, or they find you."

"You know, I'm so fucking sick of people telling me I don't know who I am." The sharpness in Jim's words belied his anxiety. "That's bullshit. I know exactly who I am, always have."

"No you don't," Sarah said simply. "You think being you means giving all of yourself away, and living on the crumbs that are left. So inevitably you get hungry and try to grab something more, but the things you steal from someone else's table are already poisoned with your own anger and jealousy, and so instead of being nourished you're weakened." Her voice quivered on the last word. "I don't want to see you go through that anymore, love. I want you to find real joy and strength, but what you've been doing all this time isn't working. You must see that."

For a long time Jim said nothing. Then, "How does he do it, Sare? He's a bastard. He's selfish, manipulative, arrogant, egotistical, obsessed . . . and yet people love him. He's even got some woman convinced she wants to marry him, for god's sake!"

"This is not about Greg," Sarah said. "It's about you. You're not here to measure up to him, or him to you." She clutched the phone tight. "Why do you think you have to compete with him?"

Jim took his time replying. "I . . . I never looked at it that way," he said finally.

"You wouldn't, babe. But it's still there all the same. You compete with everyone. It's well-hidden under the self-sacrificing front you wear."

"So I'm supposed to cut that out of me too?" Jim asked, heavy on the sarcasm.

"_No_, I'm not saying that at all. It's part of who you really are. I'm not so sure about the self-sacrifice. I think that's a learned behavior and something that doesn't fit you well at all. It . . . diminishes you."

"Now you want me to be like House—just another selfish bastard?"

"Maybe so," Sarah said, and allowed herself a small smile. "It wouldn't hurt you to be selfish occasionally, Jim. Do what you want to do without asking someone else first. Grab the biggest slice of pie. Take someone's laundry out of the dryer and put yours in on their dollar. Go to a movie you think you'd like and not something a patient told you to see. You know, be human."

"I'll take it under advisement," Jim said finally. "You really don't want me to come up?"

"I want you to take a long hard look at whether or not _you_ want to come up," Sarah said. Yet another long silence descended. She was about to speak when Jim said,

"I was supposed to be his best man." His voice was thick now with the effort not to give in to his emotions. "We got drunk one night, we were in some stupid crappy bar and there was this stripper, she was so gorgeous—legs up to her neck, big boobs and a thousand-watt smile, god, she was amazing. She kept coming on to House, flirting with him. He decided he would marry her, and he made me promise if he ever did marry someone . . . that I would be . . . It was just a joke but he meant it, I knew he did, and now I'm in—in here and I—I can't keep m-my promise—"

"It's all right," Sarah said softly. "Greg knows if you could be here, you would be—"

"It's NOT all right, goddammit! It's NOT! I should be there! He's my friend! He's—he's the only—the only—best f-friend I've ever—h-h-had!" Jim made a small noise of anguish that ripped Sarah's heart to shreds. "And you're right, I—I—I—c-can't—I—can't be there—I—Sare—"

"I know," she said, helpless to stop his pain, knowing he had to go through it. "I know, babe. I know."

He broke down then, the stifled sobs she remembered so well from school, the struggle to make as little noise as possible, to hide his feelings. Sarah didn't attempt to stop him. She simply waited until he'd wound down to shuddering breaths and the occasional sniffle. Then she said,

"Write him a letter."

Jim gave a watery snort. "Yeah, that'll work."

"Tell him what you just told me. Let him know if you could be there, you would be. That's the best gift you could give him, Jim. It isn't as if his life will stop with this one event. There will be other chances for you to stand by him."

"Oh god—he's not having a kid, is he?" The naked horror in Jim's voice made Sarah laugh a little.

"No, he and Roz decided no children. They might foster or even adopt eventually, but that's a decision down the road a bit."

"Do that again," Jim said.

"What—laugh?" Sarah smiled a little and wiped tears from her eyes. "You're that hard up that you have to listen to me cackle?"

"Yeah I—I am, actually. And I only said you cackled that one time, to-to make you mad," Jim said. Sarah chuckled.

"Well it worked. I have a very nice laugh," she said, struggling to sound stern and failing. "I ain't no biddy hen, James Evan Wilson."

"You're a p-pain in the ass, is what you are," Jim said. "Stop yanking on your hair, I can feel the tugging all the way down here."

Sarah mustered another laugh somehow and let go of the lock of hair twisted around her finger. "I wasn't doing anything."

"Yeah, right." He sighed. "A letter, huh? Paper, not email?"

"Paper," Sarah said. "Get some nice stationery. Ask Darryl, he'll find something for you."

"Complete with fountain pen, sealing wax, and red ribbon?" Jim huffed. "House—he already thinks I'm a girly-man."

"When you and Greg and I were growing up we wrote paper letters as a matter of course," Sarah said. "Just because the technology's no longer used doesn't make it worthless. It will mean a lot to him, Jim."

There was a thinking silence. "Okay. Okay. We'll see."

"Good enough," Sarah said. "By the way, keep August open."

"I don't think that'll be a problem," Jim said dryly. "The shore?"

"Yes. I'm looking into a rental in Ocean City. There's a good one close to the beach on a side street. We can have the first floor." She smiled a little, though it hurt. "Think about it."

"I was wrong, you know," Jim said after a moment. "I—I have two best friends. Sometimes I forget that."

"Yes you do," Sarah said, and heard the tears in her own voice now. "I want to see you whole and healthy and your own person, Jim. I know it doesn't seem like it, but you're on your way. I'm so proud of you."

"Thanks, I guess," Jim said. "Will—will you do something for me?"

"If I can."

"When he—when he—would you give him a hug? And k-kiss the bride for me?"

"Of course," Sarah said, her heart breaking. "I'd be happy to."

"He'll hate it," Jim said, and gave a weak chuckle. "But do it anyway."

Sarah laughed. "That's very selfish of you. Good work."

"I'm trying." Jim hesitated. "I have to go. Thanks-thank you for telling me. I . . . I know this wasn't easy."

"It wasn't, but only because I hate hurting you," she said.

"I know," Jim said softly. "You have a compassionate heart, Sare. I've always loved that about you."

"It helps that I care what happens to you for some strange reason." The lump in her throat was almost too big to swallow. "Call me anytime, all right? Anytime."

"Okay." He cleared his throat. "Love you, Sare."

"Love you, babe," she said, and ended the call.

She managed to hold off until the loaves were in the oven and the timer set; then she crawled onto the couch and stretched out, stuck her head in her folded arms and cried until she ran dry of tears and her head ached. That was how Gene found her. He said nothing, just took her in his arms and held her close while she hung for dear life, distressed on all levels.

"That's it," Gene said when she'd finally wound down. "Once the wedding's over I'm taking you away for a week. Where would you like to go?"

Sarah gave an inelegant sniff and wiped her nose. "Go where?"

"That's what I'm asking you," Gene said. He stroked her curls. "You need some time off, so don't even bother to protest. Just give me a list of places and I'll see what I can do."

She considered his words. "We don't really—"

"Yes we do really," Gene said. "We missed Cape May last year because I was away, and you've had far too many things to deal with by yourself. So just pick a spot and we'll go."

Sarah settled back in his arms, her cheek pressed to his neck where she could feel his pulse, steady and strong. "Let me think about it."

"Okay. You have one week. If I don't get an answer then I get to decide." Gene kissed the top of her head. "Understood?"

Sarah nodded. "Understood."

**_Many thanks for reading. If you are so inclined, please leave a review. It would really make my day. _**


	15. Chapter 15

_March 16th_

_8:30 p.m._

Sarah placed the pan of pizza on the table and handed over the red pepper flakes and parmesan cheese with a smile, enjoying the looks of anticipation on the faces of the young family seated at the four-top. "I'll be back to spruce up your drinks," she said, and put the spatula under the first slice.

It was a quiet evening for a Tuesday; she poured herself a small iced tea and perched on the stool by the register to let Marge take her supper break. At least it wasn't snowing tonight. The enormous drifts were actually beginning to shrink a bit as the number of sunny days had begun to increase little by little. On an impulse she went over to the jukebox and loaded in a couple of Springsteen songs. Warmer weather would be here, and she was more than ready.

"Ready for spring?" Lou lowered himself to the bench opposite the register. He looked good in his white apron and cap, shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal muscled forearms sprinkled with black hairs. "How's it going with the wedding plans?"

"I think we have just about everything taken care of, fingers crossed," she said. "Everyone's invited, we got the cake on order, the asti's chillin' in the pantry, and I'm working on cleaning up all the rooms for the overnight guests."

Lou gave her a nod. "The catering's set, I placed the ingredient orders Friday." He looked into the quiet dining room—checking on things, Sarah knew. "I told Roz about this already. A friend of mine is going to offer them the use of her villa just outside Florence for a month. She'll be in Monte Carlo until July, so they'll be doing her a favor looking after the place."

Sarah's eyes widened. "You called in a favor for them, didn't you?" she said quietly, smiling. Lou swung his gaze back to her. His black eyes twinkled.

"The _contessa_ was a beauty in her day. And she had a taste for working men." He shrugged. Sarah chuckled.

"I don't blame her." She sipped her tea. "What about Roz's parents? Have you heard from either of them?"

Lou looked at the floor. "Her father . . . we haven't seen him since she was four. Her mother—well." He sighed a little. "I doubt she'll show up or even care. As far as she's concerned, Roz was a mistake, just a complication." He shook his head. "I don't know how we raised a fool, but our daughter managed to abandon her little girl and break my wife's heart in the process."

Sarah noted the distance in his language and resisted the urge to probe. "Roz has you, and she had a wonderful grandmother too."

"We were glad to raise her. I give thanks every day she's such a beautiful girl, inside and out." Lou got to his feet as the phone rang. "We'll get Monday night pizza deliveries the next couple of months. The high school's started rehearsals for the musical and the drama teacher always buys the kids a treat."

"Okay. I'll take it over to the school," Sarah said. Lou nodded and gave her a smile as Marge emerged from the kitchen with a Coke in hand, yawning. "Hey look Sarah, we're keeping someone up past her bedtime."

"Damn straight," Marge said. She straightened the menus and picked up the phone. "Good evening, Lou's . . . hey Jean. The usual? Got it. Twenty minutes."

The evening wound its slow way through the hours. Sarah helped with the pizzas and drove them out to the high school, came back and cleaned table tops and even worked on prepping ingredients for the next day's orders. She loved the smell of oregano and fresh dough and olive oil, the well-scrubbed counters, the buzz of jukebox music, talk and laughter coming in from the dining room. After a moment she went out to the front and handed two twenties to Marge. "I'm taking dinner home tonight," she said with a smile.

As she shaped the dough for the crusts and put on the olive oil and parmesan cheese, she thought of the month ahead. It would be busy; she was cleaning the house from the top down, something she hadn't done since they'd moved in. But it felt good, as if she was setting herself in order somehow too.

Soon enough the pizzas were in the oven, one loaded with sausage, Canadian bacon, pepperoni and ham—Greg's favorite—and one with peppers, mushrooms and onions for herself and Gene. Sarah cleaned up the prep area and turned in time to catch Lou putting the twenties back in her purse.

"Come on," she protested, knowing it would do no good.

"Don't argue," he said, in the same sort of tone he probably used with Roz when she was growing up.

"Fine, I'll put it in the clinic savings account," she said. Lou looked at her.

"Savings account?"

Sarah bit her lip. She hadn't planned on mentioning that to anyone. Only Gene and Roz knew about it. "Uh . . . we have a secret account set up to help with the purchase of Greg's clinic."

For answer Lou took another pair of twenties out of his pocket and put them in her purse. Sarah shook her head, but couldn't help smiling.

"Thanks," she said. "When I make the first batch of wild strawberry preserves this spring, it's all yours."

"Deal," Lou said, and flashed her a smile that demonstrated why the _contessa_ had chosen a certain handsome young working man all those years ago.

[H] [H] [H]

_9:30 p.m._

"This is BO-ring."

Roz rolled her eyes but said nothing. She sat in the middle of the office with digital voice recorder in hand while Greg watched the monitors in the other room.

"We've been here for three hours." There was a definite edge of petulance in Greg's voice. "Nothing's happened and my leg's aching, there must be a storm coming. Anyway, I told you, a couple of the nurses were pranking me—"

"You yourself said that didn't explain everything that happened," Roz said. "Now shut up."

"What do you mean, shut up? I know when to shut up when someone tells me to shut up. I don't just keep talking on and on—"

"_Greg._" Roz fought to keep from laughing, knowing he was doing it on purpose. "Shut. Up."

There was a brief silence. "Sarah's bringing pizza home. By the time we get there it'll be cold."

"Oh, good grief," Roz said, exasperated. "Fine." She noted the time and date on the voice recorder and got to her feet, stiff from sitting on the floor. The toy she'd put a few feet away and circled with chalk hadn't moved, nor had the books and papers in the shelves around her. "Let's pack up and go home."

On the way home Greg said "I think we can close the investigation into my office."

"It's only been running since mid-October," Roz said. "We have the opportunity to keep going, so we should do it." She ignored his disgruntled stare. "More data gives us a better chance to see patterns or cycles in activity or the lack of it."

"I won't say you're wasted as an electrician, but you really should have been a scientist," Greg said after a moment. Roz recognized it for the high compliment it was.

"You're too kind," she said dryly, and enjoyed his quiet chuckle.

They arrived at Gene and Sarah's about five minutes after Sarah came home. Roz hung up the coat and scarf Greg tossed on the chair, took care of her own gear and went into the kitchen to find Greg stuffing the last of a slice into his mouth. She shook her head at him and took some beer and Coke from the fridge while Sarah put down plates. As she did so Gene came into the kitchen, took a slice from the box, and went back into the living room. Sarah glanced at Roz, a sidelong look that made both of them snicker.

"You laugh because you envy us," Greg said. He snitched another slice, but before he could leave Roz handed him two plates.

"I won't envy either you or Gene having to scrub grease stains out of upholstery," she said. "In case you haven't noticed, Sarah's been cleaning this place. Don't make things harder for her please."

"Aren't you just the sweetest little kissup," Greg mocked. He put the plates on the counter. Roz picked them up and pushed them into his hand before he could move away.

"Don't be a weenie," she said. He huffed in irritation and snatched the plates.

"Fine. Kill all my fun," he whined, slapped two slices of pizza on the top plate, and limped off at high speed. Roz took a plate for herself.

"Five year old," she said loudly, hiding a smile.

"I heard that!" Greg yelled from the living room. Roz looked at Sarah again and they laughed.

"Can't live without 'em, but digging shallow graves for 'em ruins your fingernails," Sarah said, and set Roz off again.

When she finally made it into the living room she sat next to Greg and cuddled up to his side. He mock-glared at her.

"I didn't give you privileges," he said, even as he slipped an arm behind her back and drew her closer. Roz took a bite of pizza and savored it in bliss at the same time Gene turned on the tv. The easy good mood in the room vanished as they all watched in silence while scenes of devastation in Japan played out. Roz looked at Sarah. She had taken Gene's hand in hers, her expression impassive, but Roz knew her well enough to understand she was anxious.

"So do you have your flight details yet?" Greg broke the silence. Gene shook his head.

"I'm not going," he said quietly. "I talked with the volunteer team, made some suggestions, and bowed out. The younger members need the experience. I've done enough over the last ten years, and that doesn't include Somalia."

"Is that you or your shrink talking?" Greg asked. Gene smiled and squeezed Sarah's hand.

"A little of both," he said. "A part of me wants to go. A bigger part knows I'm not ready." He glanced at the tv screen. "This is intense. And it's going to get worse. I'm of more use here coordinating teams and supplies than I would be there."

"Well said. Keep thinking that way and you'll eventually come to believe it." Greg didn't sound convinced.

"During the last stay in Haiti I started taking antidepressants to keep functioning," Gene said quietly. "That really scared me. There have been a number of suicides on my dad's side of the family, which means clinical depression might be a genetic predisposition for his kids. So I got some help and found out working in a disaster zone is not good news for my state of mind. Therefore, I stay home and work from my office. I don't like it, but I can live with it. And there are compensations." He leaned over and kissed Sarah's cheek. She brought his hand to her lips. There was a short silence, with only the voiceover of the reporter on the tv filling the room.

"Good for you," Greg said finally. He started to withdraw his arm, but Roz forestalled him by snuggling in closer. Slowly the tension in his body began to ease. She took a bite of pizza and offered the slice to him. He wrinkled his nose.

"Veggies," he said.

"Hey," Roz said. When he looked at her she stuck out her tongue coated with chewed-up food, just to make him laugh.

"I request we change the channel," Sarah said, and a moment later they were watching the local news and talking about the spring training lineup and Chase Utley's chances for recovery. The awkwardness dissipated, but Roz noted Sarah kept her hold on Gene's hand for a long while afterward.

It was some time after she and Greg were in bed when he said, "You didn't say anything."

Roz yawned and snuggled in closer. "About what?"

"When Gene and I were talking." Greg's hand cupped her breast. "You didn't jump in."

"Why would I? The conversation was between you and Gene."

"I was giving him a hard time. Calling him on his shit. Being rude, by most people's standards." His thumb circled her nipple, but not in any real effort to stimulate her. It was more a gesture of comfort—for him, Roz realized, and smiled a little.

"That little exchange? It wasn't even a blip on the radar," she said. "Now Poppi and Nana, they knew how to fight and throw insults around. When they got going sometimes, you wanted to hide so your eardrums wouldn't explode."

"So I'm just white bread compared to Italian bruchetta?" Greg snorted. "I should tell you I was holding back. That change your opinion?"

"You don't need me telling you what you can and can't say," she said. "I'm not here to censor you or make you behave or whatever. If that's why you're hanging out with me, you picked the wrong woman."

"You're saying you weren't uncomfortable with what happened?" He sounded derisive.

"I was," she admitted, "but so what? If I'd felt you were really out of line I would have said so. Just because a conversation gets tough doesn't mean you shouldn't have it. People put too much stock in being nice."

After a moment he chuckled. "No, I didn't choose the wrong woman," he said, and flicked her nipple gently before he rolled on his side and brought her close. "You'll have plenty of chances to show you're as good as your word," he said. Roz kissed his chin and slipped an arm around his waist.

"Okay," she said, and closed her eyes.

"That's it? Just 'okay'?"

Roz sighed in mild exasperation. "You're the one who's hung up on this, not me. Do you want me to sit there and scold you every time you say something?" On a mischievous impulse she started to pull away from him. "If all you're gonna do is nag, I'll go sleep at my place—"

"Come back here!" Long arms hauled her back. She giggled and allowed him to have his way. "Brat," he growled, and bit her earlobe gently. Roz made a purring noise.

"Mmmmm . . . keep doing that."

"I thought you were too tired to fool around." Greg nibbled the hinge of her jaw, his tongue stroking the little pulse just under it.

"Changed my mind," she said, and squeaked when he slid his fingers into her sex. When he began to stroke her however she grasped his wrist. "No," she whispered, "not without you, please."

They took their time, exploring, sliding into a slow, easy rhythm, both watching each other. Roz leaned forward and kissed Greg, her lips brushing his before she moved back. She never tired of reading the light in those vivid eyes, the slightest change of expression, the flicker of emotions. When he was with her he was more open. She saw the vulnerability and apprehension he was always at such pains to hide with sarcasm and rude behavior. It didn't make him less in her eyes, as she knew he feared; it made him more precious to her. When he groaned softly in release she smiled, and gasped as he rubbed her swollen clitoris so she would follow him into climax too.

Afterward, sleep had almost claimed her when Greg said "I heard something when you were in the office."

Roz moved a bit so she could look at him. In the soft semi-darkness the dying light of the fire played over his features. "What was it?"

"I don't know," he said. "Just thought I should tell you." His gaze was diamond-keen. Roz yawned.

"We'll check it tomorrow," she said, and closed her eyes. After a moment he slid down and spooned behind her, wrapping his arms about her with care.

"You sure?" He sounded skeptical.

"Positive." She put her hand over his. "Tomorrow night's soon enough."

"I take it back. You'd make a terrible scientist. You're not obsessed at all."

Roz smiled. "Love you too. 'night." She felt him sigh and relax, and followed him into sleep, secure in his embrace.

**_Many thanks for reading. If you are so inclined, please leave a review. It would really make my day._**


	16. Chapter 16

_**(A/N: a happy Spring to everyone! **_

**_If you're not reading MissBates fic When The Wind Is Southerly Season 6, you should be. Ditto clp66's fic New Beginnings, the fifth story in the Susan Chronicles. Both excellent reads-go check them out after you're done here. -B)  
_**

_March 20th_

_10 p.m._

Sarah lay curled on her side on the couch, watching the fire and enjoying the peacefulness surrounding her. It had been a busy extended weekend, with St. Patrick's on Thursday and the first day of spring today. Of course the weather had decided to remind everyone that wintry conditions still held sway despite the equinox; they'd gotten a generous dumping of snow along with plummeting temperatures and a keen wind that made Sarah's hip ache and chilled her fingers. The conditions had been bad enough Thursday to cancel the party at the fire hall, so they'd brought the band to the house and carried on well into the evening, everyone clustered around the fireplace, replete from a dinner of brideys and bangers and colcannon and soda bread, all washed down with plenty of beer. Gene had given her a gift of new music-a couple of Dropkick Murphys CDs-and Roz had presented her with a beautiful dark teal cableknit sweater Sarah had instantly treasured. She wore it now, enjoying the feel of the soft yarn against her skin.

They'd celebrated the first day of spring in style too, with hot cross buns and colored eggs for breakfast; the pots of forced tulips and daffodils on the table and windowsills brought at least the idea of springtime into the house, even as snow fell outside.

"Hey." Greg moved past her to settle in his favorite easy chair. Sarah offered him a smile as he sat down with a sigh, his features relaxing.

"Hey," she said. "Still coming down out there?"

"It's slowing now," he said. "Roz is crashed out in bed already, she decided to stay."

"I love her engagement ring," Sarah said. "It's beautiful."

"You don't wear one," Greg said. Sarah resisted the urge to hide her hand.

"No, I don't," she said. "When we decided to get married we were too broke to buy more than a pair of wedding bands."

"And your boy toy never tried to get you one later on." Greg said when she didn't continue.

"I don't need an engagement ring," Sarah said. "It's a waste of money."

"It's his to waste," Greg said. "What I find more interesting is your refusal."

Sarah closed her eyes for a moment. "There's nothing going on. I just don't need a ring."

"Aw, now you're being disingenuous, isn't that cute. Too bad I know your little ways." Greg stretched out his long legs. "You don't want a ring because you don't think you deserve it."

"Wow, shrink your head while you wait," Sarah said with some sarcasm. "Since when did you get your Ph.D?"

"You don't have to be Fellini to figure out what a train going into a tunnel means in an art film, and I don't have to be a bona fide brain picker to understand when someone's avoiding a question," Greg said. "You told me once you and Gene were married in an empty church. What happened?"

"You already know. Pretty simple. His family didn't attend, mine didn't attend." She saw the silent, barren pews, the quiet disapproval in the minister's features, the sadness in Gene's eyes. "We were warned it was a mistake, that there would be consequences."

"Ah, so he's a member of the Nebraska mafia." Greg's voice was solemn.

Sarah sighed. "As I've said before, he didn't go along with his father's plans."

"And that's why you don't deserve a ring."

"I never—"

"You've said yourself you do your best to make up for the fact that Gene's estranged from his family because of you." Greg toed off first one sneaker, then the other. "Ergo, you think your marriage is not really a marriage."

Sarah blinked. "What?"

"You heard me. You don't really believe you're legitimately married."

She knew he was probably right by the way her thoughts clamored to reject what he was saying. "Let me think about that."

"Feel free." Greg folded his hands over his belly and watched her. His eyes glittered in the semi-darkness.

"You would say that," she muttered under her breath.

"Hey, if you can't take it, don't dish it out."

"Oh, shut up." Sarah stared at the bright flames a few feet away. She really didn't want to explore this now, after a pleasant day and good memories filling her mind; she didn't feel a need for poking the dark corners of her mind to make the bugs come scuttling out. Still, the man had a point.

"It's not really a case of thinking the marriage is not legitimate," she said after a time.

"And here come the rationalizations," Greg said in a long-suffering tone.

"Hey, I don't kibbutz when you're thinking out loud," Sarah said. Greg chuckled.

"Point taken."

"Anyway, as I was saying: I guess it feels to me more like . . . I don't hold up my end of the bargain," Sarah said, reluctant to express the thought out loud. "Gene gave up a lot for me."

"He didn't give up anything. He made a choice and you were it," Greg said.

"It's not that simple," Sarah said.

"Yeah it is. I know your sweet patooty well enough by now to see that he's fully capable of understanding the consequences of actions taken. He knew what would happen if he married you, and he did it anyway."

Sarah considered his statement. "He had to choose between me and his family."

"So you think you owe him something for doing that, because you believe he received less than he lost even though it was his choice, free and clear."

She flinched but said nothing.

"Thought so." Greg shifted a bit. "Huh. Your reasoning is specious."

"You've just been waiting for a chance to use that word against me, haven't you?" Sarah said, trying to smile. Greg wagged a finger at her.

"Uh uh uh, no deflections." He was obviously enjoying playing therapist. "Why do you think you're worth less than that bunch of chromosome-deficient idiots Gene has for blood kin?"

Sarah didn't answer right away, not sure what she could say that would explain her feelings adequately. "I don't think I'm worth less. But . . ." She hesitated. "I'm not what he was looking for."

"You're not a straight Laynie. So what?" Greg said.

"It's not that simple," Sarah said. She watched the fire flicker and dance above the logs. "I don't mean the physical as much as . . . my . . . history." She felt that ache deep inside, the pain that never quite went away.

"You mean he didn't bargain on finding someone as fucked up as you," Greg said.

"Something like that, yes." She heard the defiance in her voice and was a little surprised by it.

"Ridiculous. Everyone's a mess to a greater or lesser degree." Greg snorted softly. "You make it sound like he wanted June Cleaver."

"Don't joke around about this," Sarah said, angry now. "It's not just a matter of Gene thinking he'd get a decent girl—"

"You _are_ a decent girl," Greg said harshly.

"No I'm not," Sarah shot back. She swallowed, shocked by the admission. "No I'm not," she said again quietly.

"Here it comes." The knowing tone in Greg's voice spurred Sarah to defend herself.

"I grew up on the wrong side of the tracks in a family full of abusive addicts and child molesters. That's not the kind of background . . . decent girls . . ." She drew in a breath and swallowed past the lump in her throat. "They don't kill their babies."

"Oh, come on! That is total _bullshit_ and you know it." Greg sat up. "You cannot seriously believe what you just said. Do you know how many nice young women came into the free clinic at PPTH knocked up and desperate to find a way to get rid of spawn without anyone knowing?"

"I can't give him a child of his own because of what I did," Sarah said. "He didn't know that when he married me."

"Ah." Greg settled back into the chair. "You believe if he'd known he wouldn't have married you."

"He should have had the choice."

"I see." Greg rested his hands over his belly once more. "After sifting through the conversation and straining bits of pertinent information out of the morass of sentimental wallowing, self-crimination and guilt in which they were immersed, it's my professional opinion that you're so full of it you squeak."

"Am not."

"Are too. Have you talked with loverboy about this?"

Sarah felt her gut clench. "No."

"Then you're confessing to the wrong person. Go find him and deal with this."

She sighed. "I was enjoying a nice peaceful moment after a very busy weekend."

"Wah wah. Cry me a river. Go find hubby and bend his ear." Greg flapped a hand at her. "Git, or whatever it is you say in Oklahoma."

"I'm going to bed in a while."

"You're avoiding the issue. Talk to Gene and do it now." Greg smirked. "Dare ya."

Sarah sniffed in disdain. "I don't do plain old dares."

"Oh balls you don't." He paused. "Double dare."

"Nope."

"Fine. I triple dog dare you to talk to you husband about this right now."

"So what's your backup? What's in it for me if I do?" Sarah demanded.

Greg rolled his eyes. "I'll . . . buy the next four cases of beer."

"Yuengling," Sarah said. "No cheap stuff."

"Yeah fine, Yuengling it is."

With more misgivings than she cared to admit, Sarah sat up and stretched a little, then got to her feet. Greg watched her, and she knew his keen gaze took in the slight dip she made when she moved her sore hip. "That's still bothering you?" he asked.

"It's a little stiff," she said. "Nothing important."

"You should have it looked at." He made a shooing motion with his hand. "But I'll leave that to Gene and someone at the hospital. You have other things to do right now, so get busy."

"You're enjoying this too much," Sarah said. "I'm never saying another damn thing about rings ever again in my lifetime."

His chuckle accompanied her up the stairs to the bedroom.

Gene was not asleep when she came in. He was propped up in bed reading, his concentration focused on the book. As she watched he brushed a thick lock of dark hair back from his forehead, his hand moving slowly because he was distracted. Sarah stood in the doorway enjoying the sight, then gave herself a mental push and came in to sit on the bed. Gene looked up at her and smiled, dimples appearing in his lean cheeks.

"Hey."

"Hey," Sarah said softly. She forced herself to go on. "I need to talk with you."

For answer Gene put a bookmark in the spot where he'd been reading and closed the book, then sat up. "Come over here. You're too far away."

"No, I need to do this right." Sarah picked at a bit of lint on the blanket. "When I . . . when I married you, I didn't tell you there would be no chance of us having children. I've never asked you . . . how you felt about that, and I never apologized." She hunched her shoulders. "I'm sorry," she said quietly.

"Where is this coming from?" Gene asked after a time.

"Um . . . I admired Roz's engagement ring and Greg—sort of ran with free association," Sarah said, cringing. Gene sighed.

"And yet you won't let me buy you a ring," he said. "Is it because you think you're not worth it? Because if that's what—"

"No. I don't know." Sarah paused. "Yes," she said softly. Now it was out, finally.

"Sarah Jane Corbett," Gene said after a long silence, "I'm gonna shake you till your teeth rattle." He sounded like he meant it. Sarah dared a glance at him. He looked stern but not mad. She returned her gaze to the lint. "At least you're finally being honest about this. I've been waiting a long time for you to admit you think I shouldn't have married you."

"I did say that!" Sarah still wouldn't look at him.

"Yeah you did. Not in so many words, but it's still there." Gene leaned forward. "Let me remind you of something. I asked you to marry me knowing full well I was taking on a bag full of wet cats. I didn't have any illusions about where you came from or what you did, because we lived to together for several years, as you will recall, and we talked about a lot of things. I'll admit finding out we can't have kids hurt. But what hurts more is you thinking you're not worthy of me and trying so hard to make up for a lack that was never there in the first place."

Sarah swallowed hard. "I'm sorry," she said again, and squeaked in surprise when Gene grasped her by the shoulders, his hands gentle but firm. He kissed her, a lengthy process that had her melting against him by the time it was finished.

"I'm buying you a damn ring tomorrow," he said. "You pick something out, I'll get it, and you'll wear it. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes," Sarah said softly. "You—you're sure?"

He shook her gently. "Damn stubborn woman," he said, and kissed her again.

[H] [H] [H]

When Sarah doesn't come back down after fifteen minutes or so, Greg hauls himself out of his chair and heads off for his room. He comes in to find Roz is snuggled in on her side of the bed, asleep. Her dark, rather sardonic features are relaxed, her long lashes soft against her cheek. He gives in to the temptation to mess with her by sitting on the bed and leaning over to kiss her. She stirs a little and smiles, her hand sliding out from under the pillow to reveal her engagement ring. In the soft light of the dying fire it gleams, the little diamond glittering and winking like a star. Greg picks up her hand. Her fingers and palm are lean and callused, tight with muscle—a blue-collar working woman's hand, but for all that it's small and slender, graceful despite the mutilated little finger. He brings it to his lips and brushes a kiss over the back. Roz opens one eye in sleepy inquiry.

"You okay?"

For answer he leans down, flips up her tee shirt and blows a raspberry on her left breast. She squeals and pushes at him, an effectual effort. He lies down next to her and rubs his bristly chin lightly over her soft skin. Her hands slide up to hold his head in place as he suckles first one nipple, then the other, tugging gently to make her moan and sigh. And then in no time at all they're naked and moving together, slow and easy, orgasm washing over them in a sweet wave of pleasure than sends them tumbling into the sheets afterward.

"What was that about?" Roz asks finally. "Not that I'm complaining."

"You know why I asked you to marry me," he says. Roz looks surprised.

"Yes."

"Care to elaborate?" he says with some sarcasm.

"I'm not sure if I can without using the L word," she says. A fugitive gleam of humor lights her eyes. "Can you handle hearing it?"

"You never told me you were a lesbian," he says.

"Ha ha. Good night." She rolls away from him, so he rolls her back and gets a look of exasperation, though the amusement is still lurking there. "_What?_"

"Just so we're clear," he begins. Roz sits up.

"I'm very clear. I love you. You love me in your own twisted way. What else is there?"

"Uh—" he says, enjoying this typical display of practicality. "Nothing."

"Fine. Lie down and go to sleep." She tugs gently on his arm to get him to comply. When he does she cuddles in behind him spoon fashion and presses a kiss to his shoulder. "Worrywart," she says, and lays her cheek against his back.

Greg lies there for a long time, thinking about Sarah's answers and his own, comparing, weighing the results, drawing conclusions, until the warmth of Roz's body relaxes him enough to pull him into sleep.

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined please leave a review, it would really make my day._**


	17. Chapter 17

**_(A/N: I have a question for all my faithful readers: where would you like to see Sarah and Gene go on their week's vacation? Let me know and I'll choose the destination that appeals the most to my muses and me too. :) -B)_**

_March 26__th_

_11 a.m._

He sits at the table, holding the letter. In the bright sunshine flooding through the window behind him, he notices the details: stamp perfectly aligned with the edges of the envelope, the address printed with care, the crisp linen of the paper. There is no return address, but he knows where it came from all the same.

On a sudden impulse he turns it over and opens it, using his finger to rip the top. He knows the sender would not approve of this brutal method, and the knowledge makes him smile just a little. Inside is one sheet folded with neat precision. He takes it out and hesitates again. This is the point where he can still retreat, still retain his innocence . . . He unfolds the letter and holds it out a bit so his middle-aged eyes can read the small, firm handwriting. For a moment he has a memory of the writer, dark head bent over a case file in the mellow light of a desk lamp, left hand hooked around to jot down case notes in the same meticulous print seen here.

_It seems ridiculous and more than a little creepy to start out with 'dear Greg' or 'dear House' or some other semi-formal greeting. Our friendship has never been about observing the niceties. So let's just muddle along as best we can. I hope everything is good with you. I'm doing well by the way, thanks for asking. At least as well as someone spending an extended stay in Chez Lunatique can expect, at any rate. _

_Sarah told me you're getting married. _

This directness, something the letter writer is not known for, stops him. He stares at the simple sentence, brows raised. Then he goes on, a little more wary now, presumptions set aside.

_I've had some time to think about what that means for you, and for me too. I know you wouldn't take this step unless you were very sure of yourself and the woman you've proposed to. I also know you won't be needing a divorce lawyer, so I'm not going to bother giving you the number of the guy I've used the last two times._

_You and Sarah have probably discussed the fact that I won't be able to attend the wedding. As you recall (or maybe you don't—we did go through almost an entire vat of Maker's that night, from all accounts), I promised you some years ago to stand up as your best man if you ever did find a woman who could put up with you. _

He gives a little soft snort of amusement, bringing up a dim remembrance of that night with the flirtatious smokin'-hot stripper, he and Wilson awash in really good whiskey, and Wilson's flushed face, his dark eyes gleaming with laughter and affection and that edge of envy that showed itself at times, peeking out behind the humor.

_Now you've done just that and I can't keep my word. I won't be there for any of it, not the bachelor's party or the cleanup after, the ceremony, reception, sendoff. I'm sorry I've let you down, House. _

"Oh, for god's sake," he mutters. "Jewish martyrs, spare me." He feels a swell of something like pain and pushes it away, focusing on the letter once more.

_I'm sorry I've let you down, House. I'm sorry I won't be there to show you how proud I am of how much you've done to heal and find peace. Now that I'm working on my own problems I'm beginning to understand how difficult this whole process is, how it breaks you down to essentials of pain and anger before you're able to pick up the pieces and fit everything back together in a new and better way. You've learned something I'm still working on, how to love and be loved. It pisses me off that you got there first—_

"Why am I not surprised," he mutters, and feels the pain push a little closer to the surface.

_It pisses me off that you got there first, but I'm doing my best to make it there too. Maybe someday I'll find someone. We'll see._

_Anyway, I wanted to say congratulations to both you and Roz. I don't have to hope you'll find love and happiness with her, because you've already done it. She's a strong woman, and she seems like a good one too. I wish you many great years together._

_I do have a wedding gift for you both, but Nolan has to approve it first. He wouldn't let me contribute to the bachelor party, which is a real shame. With everything you've put me through in the past before my weddings I should send in a SWAT team with super-soakers full of caramel and hot sauce to blast all the participants right before a thousand pounds of feathers gets dumped into the room, but I'll have to settle for a full report when you come back from your honeymoon._

_Have a great time in Italy. Spend some time in the smaller towns and not so much in Florence, it'll be worth the extra time and hassle, trust me. _

_Don't screw this up. I'll never forgive you if you do. I won't let you sleep on my couch either. Keep that in mind. _

_Take care of yourself please. My love to everyone there. _

_Wilson _

For a long time he sits there staring at the letter—not re-reading it, just holding it in his hand. He can hear Wilson's voice in his head, that wry, sarcastic delivery vying with the natural warmth hidden beneath a businesslike tone. Finally he folds the sheet and puts it back in the mutilated envelope, gets to his feet and limps slowly to the office. Once there he goes to his desk and opens the top drawer, but hesitates before he tucks the letter away. He closes the drawer and picks up his backpack instead. There's a pocket on the side where he usually stows odds and ends. With care he folds the letter to fit and tucks it into the pocket, then zips it shut. He stands there for a moment, unable to shake the ridiculous idea that now he'll have Wilson with him when he goes to work. "Huh," he says at last, slings the backpack over his shoulder, and goes off to get ready for work.

[H] [H] [H]

"James, you have a visitor."

Wilson looked up from his book, surprised. "S-someone's here to see me?" For one moment he dared to hope it was House or Sarah, until common sense reasserted itself.

"She says she's an old friend. Her name is Kris Wagner. Do you know her?" Doctor Beasley gave him an enquiring look.

Wilson sat up straight. "_Kris?_ Uh—yes, I know her."

"Well, she's in the visitor's room if you want to talk with her." Beasley offered an encouraging smile and left him sitting there, one finger marking his place in the book.

She was indeed waiting for him in the dingy meeting room where family and friends were brought to see patients. Wilson sat down slowly at the spot across from her, still hardly able to believe she was really there.

"Hey James," Kris said. She didn't have that awkward, self-conscious expression most people wore when they visited the hospital. She looked comfortable, and maybe even happy to see him.

"Kris," he said, wincing at how cautious he sounded. "This is . . . unexpected."

"That it is," she said, surprising him with her honesty. "But it seemed like a good idea, so here I am."

"If you'll forgive my saying so, this is a long way to come for a visit to someone you hardly know."

She smiled at him, and his heart actually stuttered just a little at how that simple change lit up her face and transformed prettiness into beauty. "I'm headed for a weekend at my brother's place in Jersey and thought I'd stop by and say hello, find out how you're doing."

"Still here," he said, "not leaving anytime soon." He tasted the bitterness lingering in those simple words.

"If this is where you need to be, that's a good thing," Kris said quietly. Wilson gave her a sharp look, but she wasn't taking a shot at him or being a smartass. She meant what she said.

"The ambience leaves a lot to be desired," he said. Kris chuckled.

"It is a little on the dire end of the scale."

"You have no idea. The meat loaf still has the jockey's whip marks on it," he said, and she flashed him a humorous smile.

"I should have smuggled some cookies in for you. Maybe next time."

Wilson stared at her. "Next time?"

Kris paused, a blush creeping into her cheeks. "I . . . I'd like to visit you. If it's all right," she added, her words hurried.

"Why?" He had to ask. Kris's color deepened but she answered him readily.

"Maybe I'd like to know how you're doing."

"You could ask Sarah that," he said, and realized with a sort of distant shock that he was enjoying being direct, not wrapping everything up in polite chit-chat.

"I could. But I'd rather talk with you myself," Kris said. Her eyes were a dark blue, darker than House's and less intense, but with a quiet steadiness he'd always liked in her. "We've known each other socially for a while now, but I'd like to think that over time we've become a bit more than just acquaintances."

Wilson thought of the Christmases they'd shared, the times they'd talked and laughed together like old friends, teased each other over ugly sweaters and crazy gifts. "I . . . I guess we're friends."

"You make that sound like a bad thing," Kris said. "Be nice to me or I'll put a hex on your meat loaf and make it whinny the next time you take a bite." She made evil squinty eyes at him, waggling her eyebrows up and down. He laughed and felt something deep inside relax just a tiny bit for the first time since he'd arrived here.

"Okay," he said. "If you're going to be mean about it, I guess I'll have to let you visit."

Kris sat back. "Good. I'll take you up on that." She glanced at the orderly lounging in a corner. "You allowed outside?"

They strolled the grounds with the orderly in tow. Kris had put her arm through Wilson's as if it was a matter of course to do so, her small hand light and warm where it rested on him. She was close enough to smell her perfume, something clean and a little floral. "Do you know how long you might be here?" she was asking.

"Not sure," he said. "There have been . . . difficulties."

"Nothing worth doing is easy," she said, but it didn't sound like some trite platitude. Wilson peered at her.

"Personal experience talking," he ventured. Kris nodded.

"Did a little dance with breast cancer a few years ago," she said. "I was lucky. A lumpectomy and radiation put me in remission. But it made me realize I'd taken my life for granted. Now I don't."

"You've been keeping up your exams?" He felt a stab of concern.

"Five years and everything's clean as a whistle," she said, smiling. He covered her hand with his for a moment.

"I wonder why whistles are used as an example for something ultra-clean," he said after a moment. "You'd think with all the spit going into them they'd be pretty disgusting."

"Thank you for that charming visual," Kris said dryly, and he laughed.

"I'd like to see you again," he said when it was time for her to leave. "Just—just if you're in the area, you know, don't make a special trip."

Kris arched an eyebrow at him. "You think you're not worth my coming down just to see you?" She shook her head. "Don't boss me around, buster," she said with a smile, and took his hand in hers. "See you soon."

Wilson looked down at her fingers clasping his. "Okay," he said. "Okay."

[H] [H] [H]

An hour or so after supper, one of the nurses tracked him down. "Doctor Nolan says you have a phone call," she said. "He's in his office."

"James," Nolan said when Wilson poked his head in the doorway. "Doctor House on line one. You want to take it?"

"I—uh . . . yes. Thanks." Wilson came in, picked up the receiver and watched as Nolan pushed the button. "House?"

"Wilson." The rough voice sounded so close Wilson almost looked around to see where House was standing. "Got your letter."

"Yeah, gee, I'm great. And how's everything in East Podunk?" Wilson said with considerable sarcasm, though he pulled his punch a bit to let House know he was teasing. There was a reluctant chuckle from the other end of the phone.

"Working in the prison laundry yet? They never fold those sheets right. The corners just won't match. It's horrifying. It's Linenmageddon."

"You know, I'm presuming this call has a point besides letting me know the post office did their job properly," Wilson said.

"Correct. I wanted to give you the straight skinny. Sarah's got the dates set up for going down the shore for a couple of weeks. Looks like late August, so get your shit together now and avoid the Labor Day rush."

"If only it worked that way," Wilson said, and swallowed down the lump in his throat. "You—you all really want me there?"

"Hey, we need at least one gullible doofus we can bury in the sand up to his neck and leave for the crabs to nibble," House said. There was a slight curl of humor in his voice, so negligible it would go unnoticed by most people. "And you can buy the beer before we hit town."

"Why does the booze always go on my tab?" Out of the corner of his eye Wilson saw Nolan grinning. "Gah—you're still a cheapskate. Somehow they didn't beat that out of you with the rubber hose they use here on the really tough cases."

"I bet you get hosed three times a day, you big queer."

"Do not." Wilson fought the urge to laugh.

"Do too. Just the fact that you're in denial about it—"

"House—I'm not getting hosed!" He couldn't hold back the laugh. "Jerk!"

"Now that's what I like to hear," House said. "Put a big green X on your calendar. Don't use red or you'll confuse it with your special time of the month."

Wilson was grinning now too. "I'll make it brown, since that's what you're full of."

"Perfect. Oh, and Wilson?"

"Yeah?"

"No need for an apology." House was silent a moment. "Shit happens. You're . . . you're where you're supposed to be. But only until August."

"Duly noted," Wilson said.

"Fine. My job here's done. Later, Betty." And he was gone. Wilson replaced the receiver, his mind already picturing bright sun, hot sand, cool blue waves.

"Have a seat," Nolan offered. Wilson did as he asked, then looked at the other man.

"He said no apology was needed."

Nolan smiled a little. "Those are good words to hear."

"Yeah. And—and I'm invited to the shore this August." Wilson sat back. "They want me to come down with them."

"Excellent. Guess we'd better get to work then," Nolan said. "Let's talk."

Wilson nodded. "Okay." He remembered Kris's hand on his arm, the sound of House's voice with the teasing note that hadn't been there for so long. "Yeah . . . okay." He took a deep breath and plunged in. "I don't think I ever told you about my brother . . ."

**_Many thanks for reading and reviewing. If you're so inclined, please leave a review. It would really make my day. _**

**_Thanks also to everyone who has added me and/or my story to their Alerts and Favorites lists, I'm deeply honored.  
_**


	18. Chapter 18

_April 1__st_

_3:30 p.m._

Greg sits in the break room at work munching one of Sarah's oatmeal raisin cookies, wishing he were home watching the game instead of a rerun of _Judge Judy_. It's opening day in Philly and while Sarah's got the dvr warmed up, he'd rather be ensconced in his favorite chair with a cold beer, enjoying the first battle in a three-game series between the Phils and the Astros. Instead he's here, enduring the rigors of utter boredom coupled with the inanity of April Fool's jokes, and in particular the spectacularly mundane kind yokels find amusing: salt in the sugar shaker at the coffee station, water balloons in his locker, dry pens in his desk drawer. If he really wanted to retaliate he could level this place with a barrage of incidents that would have his boss birthing a whole litter of kittens, but it's just not worth his time. Still, he can't let this bunch of knuckleheads off completely; he does have one prank ready to go for the end of shift.

The Judge is about to deliver her verdict when his cell phone goes off. He takes it out of his pocket, surprised by the ringtone: Heart's 'Barracuda', the song he chose a couple of years ago for Cuddy. He's never gotten around to taking PPTH names off his list. Now he answers with caution, wondering if the yenta at Mayfield's been blabbing about the wedding.

"You have reached this number in error . . ." he begins.

"House! Come on, I know it's you." Cuddy sounds the same as always—exasperated, harried, weary. "I'm well aware it's April first. You don't have to prank me."

"Still a buzzkill," he says.

"Still a jerk," she replies, but now she's smiling, he can tell. "The date made me think of you. How's everything?"

"My philosophy hasn't changed. Pillage first, then burn," he says. "What's up?"

"We haven't talked in a while," Cuddy says. Her tone softens a little. "You're doing well?"

He debates telling her for about two seconds. "Sure am. Getting married."

There is a brief silence. "_Married?_" she ventures finally. He hears the disbelief. "That's an April Fool in very poor taste."

"My fiancée would agree," he says, and puts his feet up on the table. "It's not a joke."

"House . . ." Cuddy falls silent again. "You—you're really—you're _serious?_"

"As the proverbial myocardial infarction," he says cheerfully. "So how about you? How ya been?"

"So you . . . you met someone and she can actually put up with everything you dish out?" Cuddy made a noise of disbelief. "No way. You really are pranking me."

"Aw, now I'm hurt," he says. Truth be told, sometimes he misses the flirting, the give and take with that sharp edge, the delight of watching Cuddy's expression as she acknowledges a particularly effective zinger. And the heaving bosom, well, that goes without saying. But now this ancient ritual has taken on an air of nostalgia, a bit like watching a game of lacrosse. In both cases he thinks _I used to do that_; it causes an ache deep inside, a strange sort of feeling that isn't quite pain, isn't quite sorrow, but a sort of wistfulness at what's passed and won't come back again. "There's always one gullible soul out there who can find it in them to love someone like me." He glances up as Cuddy chuckles and sees Roz standing in the doorway.

"Well, if it's true, congratulations," Cuddy says. "Don't screw it up. No matter what you say, there aren't that many women who could put up with you. You've got the fish landed, don't let it slip away by being careless or stupid."

"Excellent advice. I'll remember it the next time I eat red snapper, and yes that's a double entendre," he says. "Gotta go, the ball and chain is here." He flips the phone shut and tips his chair back, staring at Roz. "You gonna come in or stand there all day?" he says, a little too terse to be welcoming. After a moment she enters, moving slowly. She stops a few feet away from him. The expression on her face . . . he can't tell how she's feeling. It scares him.

"Is that how you see me?" she says finally. Her voice is very quiet; he can barely hear her. "As someone too stupid to understand what she's doing when she loves a man like you?"

There is no point in protesting that he was joking. "My words speak for themselves." He says it in defiance, though he has that horrible sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Everything is about to go horribly wrong and he can't stop it.

Much to his surprise, Roz moves to the chair next to his and sits down. She faces him, still with that impassive facade. Her eyes are green as a cat's, something he's learned means she's bottling up strong emotions. The knowledge doesn't ease his fear. He's expecting her to freak out, to demand to know who he was talking to, to shout the place down for calling her gullible and a ball and chain.

"Why do you think I accepted your offer of marriage?" she asks after a little silence. Greg rolls his eyes.

"My 401(k)," he says, trying to fend her off. Roz tilts her head at him.

"Seriously?" There's a glimmer of a smile there, but she's not kidding.

"I don't know," he growls, readying himself for battle. "I'm not a mindreader."

"I'm not asking you to tell me what you think I want to hear," she says. There it is, the sharpness he relishes—and that's something he hadn't realized before, that he treasures the no-nonsense aspect of her personality. "I'm asking why you think I'm marrying you."

"Uh . . . it . . . it seemed like a good idea at the time?" he says, knowing he'll get kicked for it. He does, but not in the way he's expecting. He's not ready for the pain he sees in Roz's eyes. She lowers her gaze.

"One of the reasons why I like you," she says to the floor, still in that too-quiet voice, "is because I know where I stand with you. You joke around and you tease, but you haven't given me a line of bullshit until today." She gets to her feet. "I'm asking you for the truth, so I'll give you some first. I know whoever you were talking with just now was someone you loved, or still love. I'm jealous as hell," her voice shakes just a bit on the last word, "but I also know you have people in your past and a history that doesn't include me. I get that. I can live with it. I won't like it, but I'm willing to do it." She starts to move away, and Greg is seized with a sudden terror that she won't come back. He grabs Roz's hand.

"Wait!" he snaps. She stops, but she still won't look at him. "Just sit down," he says with a bit more gentleness, though he has to force it. She obeys, perching on the edge of the chair. Her hand is relaxed in his, unresponsive. Greg takes a deep breath.

"The woman I was talking with was my employer at Princeton-Plainsboro, Lisa Cuddy. She and I . . . back in college we had a one night stand, and for a long time after that . . ." He tries to find the words. "We . . . we missed each other somehow. There's always been this thing going on, but it's never worked out."

Roz nods. "Okay."

"I didn't ask you to marry me because of her," he says.

"I get that." The absolute sincerity in her voice is calming. His fear recedes a little.

"Then what—"

"Why do you think I accepted your proposal?" she asks again.

"I don't know," he says after a struggle between giving her some line and admitting the truth.

"I love you," she says. "But that doesn't blind me to who you are. You do things that drive me crazy, like flirt with an old love, and call me your ball and chain."

That sinking feeling is back. He waits for her to smack him down, to declare her moral victory over him, knowing it will mean they won't stay together.

"But if I say I love you then it's on me to accept all of you, not just the parts I like. And I do," she says simply. "You do the same for me. That's why I want to marry you."

He doesn't know what to say to this. Roz turns to face him. Her fingers tighten gently on his. "I like you too, you know," she says. "You're actually a pretty good friend under all that sarcasm and rude behavior. I hope I'm a good friend to you as well." She leans in and kisses his cheek, then gets to her feet. "I'll come over after work tonight. If you still want me I'm yours."

"What if I don't?" He can't help saying it.

"Then I'll find a way of handling it," she says, and lets go of his hand. She walks away without another word.

The last hour or so of work is pure torture. He doesn't even bother to stick around and see the result of his prank, he's so distracted. Whoever opens the fridge will surely get him back for the exploding molasses bomb, but that's a later thing.

He gets home and immediately looks for Sarah. She's out back in the garden, checking on the rows of peas coming up nicely now. It's a sunny day but chilly; she's bundled into a barn coat and wellies, making sure the thick rotted-hay mulch won't cover the seedlings. When she looks at him she doesn't say a word; she just gets up and goes with him into the house, leaving her muddy boots by the door.

"Sit," she says. Greg perches on a stool, rubbing his scar. It's just a reflex now, his thigh doesn't hurt more or less than it always does, but years of habit die hard. "What's going on?"

He fills her in, trying to ignore the clench of anxiety in his stomach. When he's done she doesn't talk right away. Instead she goes to the fridge and takes out a ginger beer, pops the top, and sits down across from him at the breakfast bar.

"I don't know why you're worried," Sarah says at last. Greg shoots her a hard stare.

"Love your bedside manner," he says.

"Take a look at the conversation objectively," she says. "At any point did Roz speak in past tense?"

"No," he says slowly.

"She's telling you she knows you have flaws and weaknesses. She's not beating you over the head with that knowledge, she's just being clear so you understand the point she's making."

"I get that," he says.

"No you don't," Sarah says. "You're waiting for her to deliver a sucker punch. It won't happen. Roz isn't built that way. She had to endure too much of that kind of thing when she was a kid."

"Her mom," Greg guesses. Sarah takes a long swig of ginger beer.

"When she comes by later, talk to her. Then shut up and listen. You'll find the answer."

His chance to follow Sarah's advice appears a couple of hours after supper. He's out in the barn, playing guitar and drinking a beer, watching the fire flicker and dance in the woodstove and wondering if he's just lost something infinitely precious that he'll never get back again. When Roz slips inside the door his heart gives a funny little lurch, but he keeps on playing. She shucks off her coat and walks over to him. In the wavering light she looks solemn, intent. She stops a few feet away, just as she did in the breakroom earlier, but she doesn't say anything. She just waits.

"Thought about what you said," he says at last, to break the silence. Roz stays silent. Greg plays a chord and picks it. "I still want you."

"Why?" Roz's voice is even, uninflected.

He wants to be flippant, sarcastic, dismissive. Instead he says "Because you're the only person besides Sarah who's ever really liked all of me. Most people can't stand how I am, what I do." He hadn't even realized he would say that. Roz moves closer.

"Most people are idiots," she says, and bends down to kiss the bald spot on top of his head.

Some time later, as they lie together under the thick comforter on the big bed, he says "I don't see how you can, though."

Roz understand what he means. "It isn't always easy," she says. "If I learned anything from Poppi and Nana, it's that you have to work at staying in love with someone. They'll always do things to piss you off."

"Like you sticking your cold feet on me," he says, just to see what she'll say.

"And you growling at me in the morning," she says.

"I don't growl," he says. Roz gives a derisive snort. "I don't!"

"Uh huh. Whatever." She snuggles closer. "So you still in? Wanna do this?"

"Yeah," he says, and rubs his hand up and down her burned forearm, a light, tender gesture. "Yeah, I am. Let's do it."

"Okay. Thanks," Roz says, and it's then he understands she was scared too. For answer he draws her close and enfolds her, his face pressed to the silk of her thick wavy hair.

"You're welcome," he murmurs. But he can't let it go, not this easily.

"We're gonna fight," he says. "You won't like me when we fight."

"I will always love you," Roz says. "I'll get mad as hell when you're being being a prick and a bastard, but I'll still love you." She strokes his chest. "I won't stop being your friend either just because we hit a rough spot."

"You can't guarantee that," he protests.

"I'm just saying that as far as I'm concerned, I want to be friends with you for the rest of my life. Getting to love you too is a great bonus and I'll take it," Roz says. Greg thinks about it. Then he nods.

"'kay," he says, "me too," and lets the quiet settle over them like a blessing from the shadows, soft and subtle.

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, please leave a review. It would really make my day. _**


	19. Chapter 19

**_(A/N: a short chapter, but I wanted to post it as a midweek extra just for fun. Enjoy. -B)_**

_April 3__rd_

_10:30 a.m._

"Can I talk with you?"

Roz stood in the kitchen doorway, her hair wrapped in a towel and House's shabby flannel bathrobe bundled around her slender figure. Sarah slid a finished waffle out of the iron and added it to the stack on the plate.

"Good morning. Of course you can talk with me." She smiled at the other woman, thinking _I knew she'd arrive here eventually_. "Have a seat. What's on your mind?"

Roz came in and claimed a stool, watching as Sarah put the waffles in the oven to keep warm. "You probably know Greg and I . . . there was a—I don't know what to call it. Not a confrontation, exactly . . ."

"A part of his past came up," Sarah said. "He told me about some of it." She took her cup of tea from the counter where it had been steeping, added a little sugar, and sat next to Roz.

"I know things like this will happen," Roz said. She looked troubled, her strong features made more angular and stark without the soft fall of dark hair around them. "He has a past and memories just like anyone else. What scared me . . ." She lowered her gaze to her hands. "I was jealous of someone I've never met. I kept wondering why she called, why he was talking to her, was he—" She stopped, then went on. "Was he going to leave me for her."

"I'd be more surprised if you weren't jealous," Sarah said when it was clear Roz was done. "That's a natural response. It's what you did about it that counts, and you did the right thing. You were honest with Greg. You told him how you felt and let him make his own decision about how to deal with it."

"I don't know if I can keep doing that," Roz said quietly. "It hurt like hell, walking away." She folded her arms across her middle—a self-protective gesture, Sarah noted.

"Are you really afraid he'll leave you for someone from his past?" she asked.

"That's just it. Mentally I trust him, but . . ." Roz hesitated.

"Either you trust him or you don't," Sarah said, keeping her tone gentle but firm. "Can you really see him leaving you once he's made a commitment?"

Roz thought about it for a few moments. "No, but the hell of it is, that scares me too. I don't want him to think he's tied to me or that he's lost his freedom," she said finally. "I'm afraid I'll make him unhappy no matter what I do, Sare. He's had so much pain and loneliness in his life already. I couldn't stand it if I just gave him more of the same." She glanced away.

"You should know by now that Greg doesn't take relationships lightly," Sarah said. "If he proposed to you, he wanted to do it. I haven't seen any signs of remorse or regret, quite the contrary in fact. He hasn't come out and said it in so many words, but I think he's looking forward to being your husband. Before you, no one ever expected he would be capable of that level of commitment, and that includes him as well. He's apprehensive too though," she added. Roz looked at her, brows raised.

"He said that? You're not breaking any doctor-patient rules, are you?"

"I'm not breaching confidentiality," Sarah assured her. "He's my friend also, you know. We do have conversations that aren't included in a session. He's well aware I talk with you, but he hasn't asked me not to tell you things. If he had, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

Roz nodded. "Okay." She relaxed a little, but she still looked worried. "So he's—he's scared too?"

"Of course. Most people who enter into a marriage have at least a few fears about what they're doing," Sarah said. "You're merging your future and all its unknowns with someone else's. That's a big responsibility. My advice is to concentrate on today. Let tomorrow take care of itself." She paused. "You already know Greg has endured a lot of misery over the years. That means he has strong self-defense mechanisms, and he'll use them to push you away when he's unsure of how you'll respond. He also likes to test limits over and over. I think the approach you've chosen is a good one. Be honest, let him know you love him no matter what, and don't allow him to trample over you." Sarah smiled a little. "There will be days when none of that will work and you'll wonder what the hell you were doing, marrying an idiot. He'll be thinking the same thing. It'll pass."

"Yeah, I know. I told Greg about Poppi and Nana. They loved each other, but they still had times when they would fight and not talk. You and Gene do too," Roz said. Sarah laughed softly.

"Yes we do indeed. It's a natural consequence of two stubborn people deciding to live together." She smiled. "Sometimes at night I lie awake and think about all the things that could go wrong, how we could both screw things up so badly if we wanted to. My grandma Bailey used to call that kind of worrying 'the wolf at the door'."

"How do you stop it?" Roz faced her now.

"You have to accept the fact that now and then you'll hurt him," Sarah said. "Now and then you'll be jealous for no good reason, and sometimes maybe for a very good one." She reached out and took Roz's hand in hers. "He'll hurt you and he'll be jealous as well sometimes. It's inevitable. It's what you do about it afterward that matters."

Roz nodded. "Okay," she said, and Sarah felt her relax just a little. "I'll try to remember that."

"You'll be all right," Sarah said, and gave Roz's hand a gentle squeeze before releasing it. "So will he. I'm not saying there won't be bumps in the road, but you'll manage them. When you're friends as well as lovers, it helps more than you think."

"It's funny," Roz said after a moment. "When I first met him I thought he was the biggest jerk on the face of the planet. Then when I was here wiring the office I got to watch him every day, mostly with you, and I started to see who he really is under all that sarcasm and mean attitude. He doesn't have a heart of gold, but he's a lot better person than he thinks he is. You know?"

Sarah chuckled. "Couldn't have put it better myself," she said. "You're one smart electrician chick."

Roz smiled, her eyes bright with affection. "I guess we both love him in our own way," she said. "It's better than he deserves and exactly what he needs, I think."

"Damn, woman! You keep stealin' my thunder like this, I'll be out of another job," Sarah said as Greg limped through the doorway, still in tee shirt and sleep pants, his hair tousled. He glared at Roz with slightly bloodshot eyes.

"That's _my_ bathrobe," he said in obvious exasperation. Roz gave him an innocent smile.

"You weren't using it," she said.

"I was _asleep!_"

"Not my problem if you woke up before I was done with it," she said. Greg growled at her and headed for the coffeepot. "Fine, you can have it back."

Greg turned and narrowed his eyes at Roz. "How many times have you used it while I was sleeping?"

"Oh, once in a while," Roz said, and started to stand up. "Here, take it."

"Don't want it now," he grumped, and returned his attention to his coffee mug. "It's got girl cooties on it. God knows if I put it on without cleaning it off I'll be the one wearing a damn dress to the wedding."

Roz sat back down and sent Sarah a sidelong look, her green eyes full of mischief. "I don't have any dolls to burn so you're out of luck," she said. "You could rip up my old wiring code handbook though."

"Tomboy," Greg muttered. He took a long sip of coffee, holding the cup with both hands as if he was performing a sacred rite. Sarah bit back a laugh.

"Should I take it out back and boil it?" she asked, all innocence. "Douse it with kerosene and set it on fire? Use it as a nest for my baby chicks? You tell me."

"What baby chicks?" Greg turned to squint at her. "We're gonna have chickens?"

"No, _I'm_ gonna bring in some chickens after you and the bathrobe-stealer depart for Italy. Anyway, it's biologically impossible for me as a mammal to have chicks." Sarah folded her arms when he snorted in reluctant amusement. "Stop being such a crab and admit you like having a bathrobe that smells like your woman."

"Do not." Greg picked up the mug and headed for the doorway. "Fine. I'm just an innocent bystander who came in for a cup of coffee. I won't hang around to have abuse heaped on me by a girl gang. That's just wrong in so many ways." He went past Sarah, exaggerating his limp. Sarah reached up and gave the back of his head a light thump.

"Hey!" Greg smacked her hand away, blue eyes blazing at her even while his lips twitched. He sidled out of reach and hurried into the living room, coffee sloshing over the rim of the mug.

"Watch my floors, you slob!" Sarah yelled, laughing.

"Osculate my tuchis, you big redneck bully!"

Roz shook her head and slid off the stool. "We'll be back once the caffeine starts working," she said, and leaned in to give Sarah a hug. "Thanks," she whispered, and followed Greg out of the kitchen. Sarah watched them go, deep affection coloring her thoughts. They wouldn't have an easy life together, but it would be worth it for both of them. _At least neither one of them will ever be bored,_ Sarah thought, and went back to her waffle iron to finish the batter and start on the bacon.

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, please leave a review. It would really make my day._**


	20. Chapter 20

**_(A/N: my apologies for the late posting. I tried to put the chapter up yesterday, but FF was having technical problems so it didn't happen. I hope the chapter is worth the wait! Many thanks to mmgage and Pyewacket75 and my housemate K for their ideas and suggestions about the bachelor party. _**

**_Speaking of S7, you might find a few elements lifted from the episode Out of the Chute. I couldn't resist filching here and there because I must admit to enjoying House's hedonism. Though I have to say: sunbathing in Atlantic City in the middle of March? Seriously? Not so much, writers. I double dog dare you to try it. Heh. PS to Diva: yes, there really is a burger place called Johnny Rocket's on the boardwalk side of the hotel, no kidding. I just had to use it!  
_**

**_Finally, I have a fic recommendation for you: Laniki has started a sequel to her great story Now and Forever, called The Hardest Part of Love. I suggest reading Now and Forever first. Great stories and a perfect antidote to season 7 blues! _****_ -B)  
_**

_April 13__th_

_Atlantic City_

_12:30 p.m._

"This is gonna be a great night."

Jay pronounces this statement with heartfelt enthusiasm. Greg glances at Will and Chase, who are standing together in the elegant pale-marble-and-palms foyer of the Showboat, talking quietly. "It damn well better be," he says, doing his best to hide his anxiety. This is the first time he's attended a bachelor party that wasn't his creation. Leaving an event this important in the hands of rank amateurs . . . it just doesn't feel right.

"Don't worry," Gene says, turning away from the front desk. "We've got other members of our party coming in later, remember. Gentlemen, let me introduce you to our personal assistant, Carnell."

Carnell is a big black guy—not tall, but wide. He's wearing a wraparound practiced smile, but he's also got that indefinable air of the truly experienced PA about him. Greg relaxes just a little. Maybe this won't be the complete disaster he's been contemplating for a week now, ever since Gene showed him the hotel website.

"I'm here to help you find whatever you're lookin' for," Carnell is saying. "And right now, that's your home base. Top floor, guys. Follow me."

The suite is more spacious and practical than Greg expected—the main room holds an enormous flat screen with all kinds of comfortable seating arranged around it, a fully-stocked bar and a bathroom with a jacuzzi, as well as an enormous bed. They probably won't use much of this, but it's good as a backup in the unlikely event the casino turns out to be a bust. Things are already off to a good start; there's a cut-glass bowl on the coffee table filled with twenty dollar bills, and a bottle of Glenlivet waiting on the bar with a tray of pristine crystal tumblers and an ice bucket. As Greg heads for this treat he hears music—Gene's put Greg's iPod in the docking station tucked inside the entertainment center and set it on shuffle. The first song comes off the Desperado soundtrack, and Greg begins to smile. There is hope after all. "Who's got a deck and some chips? Let's get this party started!" he yells, and throws his duffle in a corner of the bedroom before pouring his first shot.

_2 p.m._

"Down and dirty," Gene said, spreading his hand over the table. "As they say, read 'em and weep, you weak sisters."

"Shit." Will threw down his cards, tossed a handful of chips into the pile and slugged down some beer. "This game is rigged."

"The last resort of a sore loser," Jay said, grinning. Greg rolled his eyes and slapped his hand face down before pushing a stack of chips at Gene. He'd been drinking steadily but not to excess; while Gene wouldn't babysit the guest of honor, he also wasn't going to let Greg get tanked too early on. This was a mere prelude to what the evening held in store.

"Some lunch might be a good idea," Chase was saying. He'd stuck to Coke or club soda with unwavering determination so far. "Then we can get serious."

"Easily taken care of," Gene said. "What do you all have a taste for? They do Cajun buffet here, or there's Chinese and a couple of burger and sandwich shops."

Once they'd decided on a huge order from Johnny Rocket's, Gene had Carnell pick up for them. Delivery was prompt and the food was pretty decent. They took a break to catch the Phillies game and invited their assistant to join them, which he did without hesitation. They devoured all-beef chili cheese hot dogs, piles of fries, cold beer and Coke, and watched the Phils rout the Nationals in nine explosive innings of great baseball—an excellent omen for the evening to come. Even the Aussie enjoyed it.

"I've acclimatized enough to take advantage of whatever sport is on," he said when razzed about his interest. "That's doing better than the rest of you. The day I see you tossers taking in real football, then we'll know the end times are here."

"Now lest we forget our purpose," Gene said once the game was over, "this is our mission statement: enjoy yourself." He got up and went to his overnight bag, removed a package and came back to hand it to Greg. "First, the poor doomed bastard gets a gift."

Greg eyed the box with suspicion. "Will it cause third degree burns in sensitive areas?"

"Open it and find out," Gene said. Greg sent him a hard glare but obeyed. Nestled within was a black velvet smoking jacket with satin cuffs and lapels, and a narrow scarlet silk scarf.

"You gotta be fucking kidding me," Greg said, but there was a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Come on, Hef," Will said. He was grinning. "Put it on."

Amid much laughter and joking Greg did so. The jacket looked good on him, just as Sarah had said it would when they'd shopped for it together online. The silk scarf added to the total bad-boy image—perfect for a night of hedonism.

"There's more," Gene said. Greg poked around in the tissue paper and found a clip-on black satin bowtie. Carnell got up.

"Allow me," he said with a smile, and fastened the tie to the neck of Greg's tee shirt. It actually looked kinda cool, and Greg seemed pleased. Gene allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. He should have known Sarah would find exactly the right touch to set the mood. He'd enjoy telling her about it when they returned home.

"Very chi-chi," Chase said, and drank the last of his Coke. "What's next?"

"Now that the guest of honor is ready to play, I suggest we adjourn to the casino for some slot and table action, among other things," Gene said. He grabbed a handful of twenties from the bowl. "Please partake of the slush fund." Once everyone had scored some bills, Carnell escorted them downstairs and to the beginning of the official party.

_6:05 p.m._

Remy sipped her Corpse Reviver and glanced around for the tenth time. Where was everyone?

"They'll be here," Foreman reassured her. "Goldman said it would be around five. It's just a little past that now."

"Taub was pissed he couldn't leave," Remy said.

"On-call sucks," Foreman said without a shred of sympathy. "I think I see Chase."

Remy craned her neck and got her first look at House since she'd seen him a year before. He was headed straight for her; tonight however, instead of the traditional suit jacket and oxford shirt he wore a black velvet jacket, tee shirt and jeans, a red scarf draped around his neck and a clip bow tie. His cane was black too, with a silver handle. He was elegant in a rough-edged sort of way; it was a great look that complemented his natural style. But it was more than the clothing. _He's so much better, _she thought, and not just physically. There was an air about him, a contentment she had never seen in him before. It made her smile. _He's found a little healing and maybe some peace of mind. I hope it stays with him._

"Hey babe." Will came up to her, smiling. She finished her drink, put the glass on the bar and wrapped her arms around him for a lingering kiss. When it ended there was scattered applause.

"Stop stealing my thunder," House growled, but she knew he didn't mean it. Over his shoulder Chase flashed her a smile and a thumbs-up. Remy grinned at him, then tilted her head and gave House a thorough examination, looking him up and down.

"Very hipster. Congratulations," she said, knowing he'd hate every second of this welcome. House rolled his eyes, exhaled loudly and pushed past her. Gene followed in his wake, offering a warm smile, his dark eyes gleaming with humor.

"A round of drinks on me for anyone at the bar!" he announced, and made a slight bow when he received applause and some cheers.

Chase gave Remy a quick squeeze on the shoulder as he passed. "Glad you're here," he said, and meant it. Remy felt a little flush of pleasure at the welcome and joined them at the bar along with the others.

"You doing okay?" she asked Chase. He nodded, his expression one of resignation.

"You're not gonna bug me all night about this, are you?" he asked in a long-suffering tone. "I promised my AA sponsor I'd bail if I thought there was a problem."

"Okay," she said, and turned to the bartender. "Two virgin peach iced teas," she said, and laughed when Chase gave her a look. "Come on, a little solidarity never hurt anyone."

"Thanks loads." But he accepted the drink with good grace and clinked glasses with her.

"If you two are done offering each other open and honest emotional support, we're headed for the floor show and then the blackjack table," House said. He raked Remy with a keen glance before he turned away. She smiled, knowing it was his own way of showing his regard and concern. She picked up her tea and followed the group.

The floor show was all-out burlesque, with dancers who were well matched and had some talent. The costumes were just scanty enough to make things interesting, and there was a live band instead of canned music. Remy kept an eye on House out of habit and was surprised to see he wasn't drinking to excess. To be sure, he kept a finger of whiskey in front of him most of the time, but he didn't pile on the booze and even his fidgeting was less obvious than usual. He made his usual acerbic observations, but otherwise he was attentive and relatively clear-eyed, and even ate a good dinner when their orders were brought to the table. It was definitely a change for the better, and Remy was glad to see it.

After the floor show they went to the casino proper, Remy noting with amusement the way everyone settled out naturally as they entered the blackjack pit and sat down. House and Gene were the leaders, without question; Chase and Foreman flanked House, with Will and Jay on Gene's side. She moved in next to Will and watched as the action began, sipping her drink. _I get the best of both worlds, _she thought. _Bachelor party tonight, bridal shower and girls night in tomorrow, and then the wedding. _She glanced at House and caught him laughing, his lean face bright with real amusement. _I never thought I'd ever see this day come, and yet here we are. You've surprised everybody one more time. Good for you, House._

_9:30 p.m._

Greg's been at this for over two hours now. He's won a substantial pile, but the odds are starting to turn against him. Everyone else is still cheering him on though, throwing money at him to keep betting, none of which he's averse to even if his stats are telling him to quit now while he's ahead. Even better, there are several pretty young things hovering around him, shaking their tits in his direction in the hopes he'll take one of them on—and that he likes best of all. The babe closest to him is pretty, dark-haired with big green eyes and a nice figure, but if he's going for brunettes he'll take the one he has at home, she's become his definition of beauty in that category. Blondes, on the other hand . . . if they head back to the room maybe they can invite some of these cuties upstairs for a lap dance or two.

"Okay, let's go," he says, and grabs his loot. "Page Carnell, we're making this a private party."

"Done," Gene says, and sends for their assistant. Greg turns to the girls clustered around him and catches Chase smirking at him. Greg sends him a glare.

"What?" Chase asks, all innocence. "You really do look like Hefner in that getup."

Greg snorts in derision and says to the babes "Wanna see my suite?" He adds in a leer for extra measure and can't help a cynical smile as they ooh and aah and crowd a little closer.

"That's been taken care of," Gene says. "We have talent waiting for us at home base."

Interesting. "Sorry ladies," Greg says, and watches them decamp with what is probably authentic reluctance on their part, but not at leaving him—more like missing the chance to snag a nice chunk of change. "This talent of which you speak had better be damn good," he grumbles at Gene, who merely smiles and says

"You'll see."

When they get to the room it's obvious Gene was telling the truth, at least on first blush. There are women waiting—all blondes, natural and un-. The strange thing is, several of them are vaguely familiar. In fact one Greg knows very well: Honey, she of the Taub-Kutner death fakeout caper. The memory of Kutner hurts, an ache deep inside he knows he'll always have when he thinks of his fellow. It fades a little when Honey comes up and gives him a hug and a kiss, her eyes sparkling.

"How the hell did you find this party?" he demands. Now he knows what's going on. Gene had Chase and Foreman look up a bunch of his hooker hires from days of yore and paid them to be a part of the action. It's a clever idea. He's underestimated Sarah's significant other; the man's got something up his sleeve and it's gonna be memorable.

"Hey, bitch out your team, not me. I'm just here for old times sake," Honey is saying. She gives his butt a caress and a pinch before she lets him go. House smirks at her as Thirteen puts a wooden box on the gaming table. She opens it to reveal cigars—Cohiba Piramides Milleniums wrapped in silk, fragrant and darkly lustrous. The last time he looked at top rated Cuban smokes online, these beauties were going for a cool c-note apiece. Carnell is not far behind her with several bottles of single malt and blend whiskeys and bourbon. There's also a chilled 2 liter of classic Coke and club soda, and a bowl of fresh lemon twists along with an ice bucket and tumblers.

"Here's the deal," Gene says. "We're gonna play strip poker. No," he says as the guys all groan, "no no no, not _us_ strippin'. I don't wanna see your junk and your hairy man boobs! No way! The _women _are gonna strip for us. You choose a hottie and she'll stand in for you. They all agreed to this beforehand, just so everyone knows that." His midwestern accent is stronger now because he's been drinking, but he looks relaxed, not plastered, and like he's enjoying himself. "Awright. Choose your cutie and let's get goin'."

Oh, this will be classic; it's completely sexist, morally reprehensible and eventually there will be tits and hoohoos everywhere you look. It's an excellent plan. Greg grabs Honey right away and is rewarded with a high five and a smooch. Everyone else gets sorted out quickly, and the game starts. Soon enough the air is blue with smoke and filled with the sound of the Allman Brothers and Santana and Jimi Hendrix. Carnell brings up delectable tidbits from the French Quarter buffet, his round face shining at the thought of all the tip money he's making, and the girls are giggling and copping feels and tossing off smart remarks, threatening their players with mayhem if they try intentionally to lose. Which is of course what they're doing because even though they're bleeding money in the process, it's well worth it for the result it produces.

Halfway through the second hand Greg's phone rings. When he picks up it's Singh, who is on call at the medical center.

"I hope you're drinking decent booze and groping some willing young thing on my behalf," he says when Greg answers. "You owe me."

"I owe you bubkes," Greg says, and throws in another stack of chips to call. "It's not my fault Wirth wouldn't bring in a ringer."

"Man, you've even got good music," Singh complains. "Life's a bitch."

"Wah wah. Go warm up speculums or something."

"For the third time this evening? I might die of the overwhelming excitement and it'll be your fault." Singh pauses. "Anyway, congratulations," he says in a different tone. "Have a great time tonight. See you on Friday."

House hangs up to see Gene watching him. "Singh," he says.

"On-call sucks," Gene says. Foreman and Chase chuckle. Thirteen rolls her eyes.

"We gonna play or dick around?" she demands, and pushes in a pile of chips to raise the stake. Her stand-in claps her hands and squeals, bends down to give Thirteen a kiss. She has on the most clothes. Chase's girl is already down to her bra and undies; he doesn't look too unhappy, and neither does she. She's next to him with her hands on his shoulders, rubbing them and bending down now and then to offer advice, her perky little boobs brushing against his arm and back. Chase smiles every time it happens. Jay's having trouble concentrating on his cards, because his stand-in has her body pressed to his and is using the contact to great advantage.

"C'mon, lose a hand," Honey says in Greg's ear. She nips gently at his lobe, sending a little shiver through him. He has to be honest, he's tempted to fold and make good use of that big bed in the other room; he does miss a good-sized breast and hips with curves, and as he remembers Honey's pretty fine in the sack too. But he doesn't want to betray Roz. Having sex with someone else, even before they declare their vows, feels that way to him.

"No fringe benefits. If you end up naked I just get to hold you," he says with reluctance. She pauses, and then she puts a hand on his shoulder.

"Yeah, okay." She sounds resigned but not pissed off. She gives him a little pat. "She must be pretty special. That's cool."

Chase's girl loses her bra first. She mock-pouts and makes her tits bounce, knowing she has the eye of every man in the room. In short order all the other girls except Honey lose their boulder holders, a couple of them cheating so they're not left behind, and it's a beautiful sight anywhere you look.

"I fold," Chase says, and gets to his feet. He's steady because he hasn't been drinking—as far as Greg could see, not a drop of alcohol has passed the younger man's lips—but his fair face is red, and he's got a sizeable erection that's obvious when he gets to his feet. As he is razzed and teased and hassled on all sides, he takes his stand-in's hand and heads for his own room adjacent the suite, pausing only once to turn up the music before closing the door behind them.

"One down," Gene says.

"You mean one up," Jay says, and everyone laughs.

"I heard that," Chase's voice reaches them faintly from the hallway.

"Get busy!" Foreman yells, and slips an arm around his stand-in's waist as more laughter rings out in the room. He's definitely been drinking and it shows; he's looser, his sharp wit brought out, and he's actually cracking up now and then. It's good to see he has the capacity to enjoy himself to this extent. A couple of years ago he would never even have agreed to attend this party.

Eventually the stand-ins are more or less naked except for Honey. Finally Greg says softly "Peel for me," and she obeys with alacrity, while he fields the accusations of cheating and misogyny he knew would come his way. Still, he gets a naked woman on his lap, so it's worth the joking slings and arrows. Gene has his stand-in snuggled in around him in her birthday suit as well, his hand idly caressing her hip.

"You better hope Sarah doesn't find out," Greg says, and eases Honey onto his good leg. She relaxes against him. For a tall woman she manages to fit nicely around his frame without being clingy or stifling. He rubs her long, slender outer thigh and she gives a little purr of satisfaction. On impulse he takes a chocolate-covered strawberry from the chilled bowl next to him and offers it to her, watching as she licks the coating from the fruit before taking a little bite off the tip, her hazel eyes full of knowing amusement with just a hint of something like sadness lurking behind the good humor.

"Yeah, me too. My wife knows how to castrate goats," Gene says, and flashes his pirate's grin. "Time to move onto the next section of the evening's entertainment."

The 'next section' consists of a movie. Gene sets it up while Carnell cleans off the table and refreshes the liquor and snacks for them. "We're going to have a little drinkin' game," Gene says. "It's pretty simple. During the movie we'll hear a certain phrase, and every time we do, everyone slams a drink. Got it?"

House glances over at the couch. Foreman's got his woman sitting on his lap, looking completely at ease. Will and Thirteen have their stand-ins sandwiched in between them, and there's already some girl-on-girl action potential being revealed. Jay and his woman have deserted them _a la_ Chase, and Gene and his hottie are hogging a nice comfy easy chair. Carnell moves around all of this handing out fresh glasses and booze as if it's no big deal, and probably for him it isn't, even if he's being paid to officially not care.

"Okay, let's get this show started," Gene says, and hits play. Honey cuddles against Greg as the first title comes up. Greg's eyes widen, and then the laugh comes out, completely unrestrained. If only Wilson was here! Because of course the movie is Feral Pleasures, a nice clean copy that shows everything clear as crystal.

"Where did you get this?" he says.

"I have my sources," Gene says. "Three guesses on the phrase."

Greg raises his glass. "Be not afraid," he says, and knocks off the shot as Gene laughs.

"Oh my god," Foreman says, completely incredulous. "This wasn't a fake? We all thought you made the whole thing up just to humiliate Wilson."

"No way," Greg says. "It was his first and only venture into porn, as far as I could discover." He settles back to watch the opening sequence.

"A friend of yours made this?" Honey asks. Greg smirks at her.

"All my friends make pornos. It's a requirement. Sort of like a secret handshake, only with side bennies."

Honey shakes her head. "You are the strangest man," she says, "but I'll give you this, you're sure as hell not boring."

"Thank you. I try," he says modestly.

_1 a.m._

By the end of the movie they are all much closer to drunk. The group on the couch has already claimed the bedroom for their adventure in foursomes; Foreman's gone to his own room with his woman, having wrapped her in his trenchcoat and staggered out into the hallway, both of them giggling as they navigate the treacherous path to their door all of ten feet away. Carnell's been sent off-duty for the evening with a handsome reward and the request that he come in at ten a.m. with good coffee and a hangover remedy, breakfast and a crowbar to get everyone out of bed and on their way. That leaves himself, Honey and Gene. They're all buzzed but not incapacitated.

"I'm gonna play me some slots," Gene says, and gets up. He gives his stand-in a little smack on the butt just to make her squeal. "Get dressed, honey." He watches her stumble to the bathroom, then glances at Greg. "Comin' with?"

"Yeah," Greg says, and looks at Honey. "You wanna?"

"Sure," she says. "If it means I get to spend a little more time with you, sweetcheeks, I'm in." She gets up and takes her clothes with her to the bathroom.

"She called you sweetcheeks," Gene snickers.

"Shut the fuck up," Greg says, but there's no anger in his reply. "You're just jealous."

"Am not. I got a hot lil' firecracker waitin' on me at home, I don't need to be a sweetcheeks." Gene grabs a few twenties from the bowl and puts them in order before he tucks them into his pocket. "You got a good woman too."

"You don't have to remind me to keep my hands off," Greg growls. Gene looks surprised.

"No way, man. Just sayin'. Lotta bitches out there, y'know? We got two of the best. Peaches, both of 'em."

"You really boosting my morale here boys," Honey says as she re-enters the room. Obviously she heard the last part of the conversation, but at least she's laughing a little. Greg gives her a squeeze.

"Come on," he says. "Be my good luck one more time."

They're on their way down to the first floor when Honey says "You've changed."

"No I haven't," Greg says. "Bite your tongue. I'd tell you to bite mine, but under the circumstances-"

"Yeah you have changed. You've found someone you can love who loves you too, I think. It's a good thing, I'm glad." Honey kisses the corner of his mouth. "For luck," she whispers, and he knows she means not just the gaming tables, but all of it.

_5 a.m._

It's several hours later by the time Greg makes it back upstairs. He's got close to two thousand dollars in his pocket now—he'd won four grand but split it with Honey, in a rare (he hopes) gesture of generosity. She'd left him then, taking one last sweet, lingering kiss as her final payment, holding his face in her hands with a tenderness he hadn't known she was capable of. "Have a great life," she'd said, and there were tears in her eyes when she'd said it, but she'd walked to the front entrance where the cab was waiting without looking back. He'd watched her go, the sweet pain of melancholy tugging at him. Another piece of his past, ephemeral as a breath, gone.

Now he sits on the edge of the bed looking at the room around him. In days past the aftermath would have been a lot more obvious, and in more than just the physical sense of strewn bottles and dirty glasses, clothes and bath towels piled in corners, and strangers sleeping in the bed. Before his work with Sarah he'd still have been hurting, still miserable and lonely after the raucous party was done. Now he feels a curious sense of having turned a page, and in general he's not sorry to do so. Oh, he won't be giving up a good cigar or a shot of whiskey or even admiring a pretty girl's tits any time soon; he's still a guy. But now . . . he's got something better, something substantial—as Honey said, someone he loves who loves him too, the first time that's ever truly happened.

When he thinks about what the future holds, he's scared; he knows he'll screw things up, it's inevitable. But maybe between the two of them, he and Roz will be able to salvage the situation and keep going. That realization feels better than anything he's known in a long time, maybe since receiving his medical license the first time. Suddenly he wants what lies ahead—in fact now he can't wait. He removes the velvet jacket, the bow tie and the red silk scarf which has somehow miraculously stayed in place all this time, toes off his sneaks and lies down, wondering if he should call Roz. She's usually up at this hour anyway to get ready for work . . . On impulse he digs his cell phone out of his pocket and speed-dials her number.

"Hey _amante_," Roz says when she answers. She sounds glad to hear from him, her voice still a little rough from sleep but warm. And happy—she's glad he called, he can tell. "Having a good time?"

"How could I not with all this booty shaking in my face?" he says just to tease her.

"That's so sweet of you, letting me know you're enjoying real tits and ass," Roz says drily.

"Well of course I am," he says, truthful to the end. "But I didn't tear off a piece, and don't plan to later either."

"Okay, that's just TMI," Roz says, but he can hear she's relaxed a little. "How's the casino?"

"Won two grand," he says, unable to resist boasting. "We can take it with us to Italy."

"Wow, a pair of new shoes for me!" she says, and laughs when he groans. "Hurry home," she says after a few moments. "Miss you."

"I haven't even been away two days," he points out.

"Yeah well, I'm a weenie."

"Not that much," he says, unable to stop a smile. "Don't grab any live wires at work."

"Thanks. Love you, safe travels." She's about to hang up, knowing he won't reciprocate, when he says quickly

"Love you too," and ends the call before she can respond, smiling just a little.

**_Many thanks for reading. If you are so inclined, please leave a review. It would make my day. _**


	21. Chapter 21

**_(A/N: thanks to anon004 for pointing out that Honey was actually the name of the nutritionist with whom House drank peppermint tea in S3. I could wank this and say 'In my 'verse House calls all his one night stands Honey', but I'll be honest and admit it was a mistake. :)  
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**_We're headed for the wedding and honeymoon in the next couple of chapters, so be warned: there's warning flags hoisted for major fluff from here on out. -B)_**

_April 14__th_

_5:30 p.m._

Roz pulled her truck into the driveway alongside Barbarella, Greg's Chevelle, and shut off the engine. Her days off started now; it would be several weeks before she saw her toolbox and jumpsuit again, and the knowledge delighted her no end. She got out of the truck and headed for her place.

Greg was where she'd expected him to be, settled on the couch watching tv with Hellboy draped around his shoulders like a living stole. Both man and cat looked up as she came in. Roz put her coat on the rack, came over and sat down next to Greg. He gave her a thorough inspection. "You smell like solder and there's dust in your hair," he said.

"Fine. I'll go take a shower before you kiss me, mister clean freak," she said, and squeaked when he tugged her off-balance so that she fell into his arms.

"I didn't say I minded," he said, and kissed her, his tongue stroking hers. When it ended she brushed her lips across his, felt him give a tiny little shiver. "You work ridiculous hours." His breath ghosted over her skin.

"Not for the next month or so. You don't look any the worse for wear from last night," she said softly, smiling.

"It isn't for lack of trying," Greg said. Hellboy stirred and put a paw against Roz's cheek, purring, his green-gold eyes mere slits. Both she and Greg chuckled. Greg's gaze met hers, gleaming with amusement, and Roz felt her heart expand with love. But she only said,

"You're all set for dinner?"

"Pizza and beer," he said as Hellboy stretched and yawned, then jumped down to go into the kitchen and get a snack. "Gene and Singh are coming over later with the guys, we're gonna watch the game."

"Okay," Roz said. She'd suspected as much when she'd offered him the use of her apartment while the bridal shower/girls night in was taking place at the Goldman's.

"That's it? 'Okay'? No dire threats, no nagging?" Greg smirked. "I have you trained already."

"You just keep thinking that." Roz patted his chest and stood. "Remember, if we come home to a mess before we leave for the airport, you'll be sleeping on the couch. And I don't mean for one night, either." She bit back a laugh when Greg's eyes widened. "Thanks for training me," she said sweetly, and went upstairs to shower, change her clothes and retrieve her overnight bag.

It didn't take long to get ready since she'd packed that morning. Her dress and other wedding items were waiting at the Goldman's home; she and Greg would return to spend the night here after the ceremony and reception, then drive to the airport in the afternoon. The thought filled her with equal parts excitement and apprehension, mixed with a wild, deep joy she'd never known before. They were really doing this, they would be a true couple now, just like Poppi and Nana . . . She took a breath to steady her nerves and went downstairs, bag in hand.

Greg was on the phone when she entered the living room. "—sausage and double cheese," he said, obviously ordering the pizza. "Gene will stop by to get it. Okay, cool." He flipped the phone shut and looked at her. "You're not getting dressed up? I thought you'd start off with dinner at that place in Albany where they have the male strippers."

"You guys might like to leer at naked chicks, but I got everything I need right here." She kissed his cheek.

"That is completely unfair," Greg said. He glared at her. "Stop trying to induce guilt. You have my blessing to ogle all the handsome young men you want."

"I'll remember that when we're in Italy," Roz said, and laughed when he rolled his eyes. She sensed real anxiety behind the teasing though, so she dropped the bag to the floor and sat next to him. "How was your day?"

"You don't have to fluff me," Greg snapped. It was one of their private phrases, something he'd started after he'd discovered she'd never watched porn and had no idea what a fluffer was. Her guess that all porn actors ate fluffer-nutters had made him laugh in a way she'd never seen before, full and open. It had been a glimpse of the man inside the fortress, one of a number of intriguing moments that had led to so much more for both of them.

"I'm not," she said. "I wouldn't ask if I didn't want to know." She leaned back and slipped an arm around his waist. "Tell me."

Greg relaxed a bit, so she knew she was on the right track. "You have someplace to be."

"It's just across the village. I'll get there when I get there," she said. "Right now I want to be with you."

"You'll be seeing plenty of me for the next few weeks. Literally," Greg said. Roz laughed softly.

"Sounds great." She meant it too. He looked at her, his vivid gaze searching her features. Then he nodded, a little uncertain but still reassured.

"'kay."

"Singh give you a hard time about having to miss out?" Roz rested her head against his shoulder. Greg's arm came up to pull her closer.

"You could say that," he said. "I got all the OB/GYN exams today. Which means I had to sterilize and warm up instruments for most of the afternoon."

"So what's wrong with that?" Roz said, fighting the urge to giggle. "You probably didn't object to seeing naked women last night."

"_Duh._" Greg gave her hip a light smack. "Smartass."

They sat together in companionable silence for a few moments, content to simply be close.

"So what do women do for a bridal shower and girls night in?" Greg asked after a time.

"Well . . . we'll have dinner, I'm making a salad and Poppi's sending us some really yummy vegetarian calzones and great-grandpa's San Marzano cream puff cake. Kris is bringing fresh hummus with pita wedges and I think Sarah's got a vat of white wine sangria in the fridge. Chitra's making pakoras, and Remy said—"

"Wait-Thirteen's gonna be there? That double-dipper." Greg sounded amused.

"'Thirteen'?" Roz asked, puzzled.

"I'll explain it to you sometime if you give me a blowjob before you go."

"You're such a romantic," Roz said in a dry tone. "How _can_ I resist an invitation like that?"

There was a pause. "Uh, it's the age she was deflowered," Greg said, clearly lying. Roz snorted. "Continue."

"Remy's bringing some chips and dip, I think. I'll probably get some nice gifts and some silly things too—"

"'Silly?'" Roz smiled as Greg's quick mind latched onto the word. "Such as?"

"You know, a cookbook for sexy dinners for two or a black lace thong, that kind of thing. Then we'll watch chick flicks and eat chocolate and popcorn and drink wine. And we'll talk about our men."

Greg flinched. "What do you mean, 'talk about our men'? As in comparing?"

"Well yeah," Roz said, making sure she sounded ultra-reasonable. "Size, length, endurance, skill, facial expressions . . ."

Greg gave her a suspicious look. "You do not," he said, sounding skeptical.

She nodded solemnly. "Uh huh, yes we do."

"Oh, I _so_ didn't need to know that," he groaned. Roz laughed.

"You don't have anything to worry about, _amante_. I won't be complaining, I'll be bragging."

He actually brightened a little at that, and Roz had to hide a smile. _Men_.

"You ready for this?" Greg asked at last. Roz nodded.

"I think so," she said. "How about you?"

"I think so," he said. "But there's still time to elope to Vegas. Take the car, take the money, find a drive-in chapel and hide out on the Strip."

"I say we save that for our tenth anniversary," Roz said, liking the idea. Greg looked down at her, brows raised.

"You really think we'll be together that long."

"Yeah," she said. "I do. Longer, too."

He didn't reply but his hold tightened gently, his hand caressing her hip.

She left finally, reluctant to go but also well aware she was being played to some extent. 'Pushing limits', Sarah had said, and this one came up the most. "You can always call me if you get lonely," she said.

"You're gonna regret saying that," Greg said. Roz laughed.

"Bring it on," she said, and leaned up to kiss him before getting off the couch. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yeah," he said. She heard the doubt underlying his reply, and her ebullience dimmed. How many times had people broken their promises to him, left him abandoned or worse yet, deliberately betrayed?

"Hey," she said, and waited until he looked at her. "I'll be there. You'd better be too, or I'll hunt you down and it won't be pretty when I find you, buster."

That did the trick. The apprehension faded as his lean face creased with humor and challenge. "I'll flee the state."

"I'll haul your ass back to the border, marry you and shackle you to the bed with a ten foot chain," she said, and flashed a grin at him. "Word."

"Only one shackle? Amateur." He waved a dismissive hand at her, but she could tell he was pleased. "Get lost."

She didn't answer him, just sauntered to the door, swinging her hips. She collected her coat and put it on as if it was a reverse strip-tease, doing a bump and grind.

"Stop taunting me!" he yelled, but he was trying not to smile. Roz blew him a kiss and went out the door, feeling lighter and happier than she had when she'd come in.

When she arrived at the Goldman's, it was to find several cars parked in the circular drive. Most of them were familiar, but one appeared to be a rental. Roz got out of the truck and headed for the door. It opened to reveal Sarah and Laynie.

"Hey, it's the woman of the hour!" Laynie said, and hurried forward to give Roz a big hug. "I'm so glad for you hon! Okay, let's get things going. Lots to do!" She took off into the house. Sarah offered a hug as well.

"How are you?" she asked softly as they went inside.

"Okay," Roz said, and meant it. She was a little nervous, but she was looking forward to what was about to happen. "Greg was afraid I wouldn't be here tomorrow."

Sarah nodded. "Understandable. I'm sure he doesn't feel that way now though, does he?"

Roz smiled. "No," she said, and Sarah chuckled.

"Good for you." She took Roz's coat and overnight bag. "Make yourself comfortable, sis. Everyone's in the kitchen getting supper ready."

Roz moved into the main room and stopped, astonished. She knew Sarah had put a great deal of time and effort into cleaning the house from the top down, had even seen her working on it from time to time over the last couple of months, but the results were far beyond expectations. The whole place looked even more comfortable and inviting than usual. The windows had been washed and hung with new curtains, the wood gleamed with a fresh coat of polish, the fireplace and chimney were free of soot, and the oriental carpets and furniture upholstery were cleaned and glowing with soft color. There were pots of tulips and paperwhites everywhere as well as hurricane lamps with etched-crystal shades placed to provide pools of light, and dark green lace garlands hung in swags over the windows, from the mantelpiece and along the banister, tied in place with black velvet ribbon rosettes. It was simple, elegant and far, far more than Sarah needed to do. Roz stood there, a lump forming in her throat. _Don't cry,_ she thought, willing the tears away, and went into the kitchen.

The party was in full swing. The island was loaded with food, and there was a large pitcher of white sangria waiting along with glasses. Laynie was helping Sarah; Roz could see Kris and Remy were in attendance, as well as Singh's wife, Chitra. She was greeted with cries of welcome, hugs and kisses, then made to sit down while a plate was filled up for her and a wine glass full of sangria put in her hand. It felt weird to be the center of attention, but in a good way. _I could get used to this,_ Roz thought. She sipped the sangria and almost smacked her lips; it was deliciously tart-sweet and cool. The last of her nervousness faded. It was going to be a great evening.

They ate supper in the living room and watched Sense and Sensibility while they talked and laughed about the movie and all the tangents the conversation brought up. At the end Sarah got to her feet and went into the office, to come back with an armful of gifts and a green lace parasol with a dark green velvet ribbon threaded through the bottom border. Roz blushed as the packages were placed on the couch next to her. Then Sarah perched the parasol over Roz's head. "I'm a sucker for tradition," she said with a smile, and sat in the easy chair next to the couch—Greg's favorite spot. "Open a gift, sis."

Roz received a silk bathrobe in a luscious shade of lavender with a matching silk nightgown; a basket of handmade herbal soaps, essential oils and shampoo; two boxes of gourmet chocolates; a leatherbound journal and a rosewood fountain pen, and a coupon for a day at the spa. The last package held a gift basket packed with a New York Times crossword puzzle book, two romance bodice-ripper paperbacks, a votive holder and tealights, and a tin of shortbread cookies. Tucked between the books was a black fitted tee shirt. When it was unrolled Roz discovered it had the words 'MRS DR HOUSE' printed across the front in bold white letters.

"In case you get bored while you're in Italy and feel the need to show off a little," Laynie said, doing her best to look serious. Roz laughed with the others, but she had a feeling Greg would be the one doing puzzles long before she would. She was never bored when she was with him, but she wasn't always sure the feeling was reciprocated. As for the tee shirt, well . . . she liked it so she would wear it now and then, regardless of Greg's attitude.

Roz shared the chocolates as Sarah brought in another pitcher of sangria and began the second movie, 10 Things I Hate About You. She started a fire in the fireplace, and soon a soothing wave of warmth scented with applewood crept into the room.

"How about a backrub?" Kris said. Roz accepted with gratitude. She settled in between Kris's legs and let her head drop forward, sighing in relief as slender fingers began to work the tension out of tight muscles.

"So you're going to stay in a real villa," Laynie said. "That's so romantic."

"You packed some warm clothes too, right? It can get cold in Tuscany at night during the spring," Kris said.

"That just gives you a good excuse to snuggle together," Chitra said, and looked at Remy when she chuckled.

"Sorry," Remy said. "I'm sorry, Roz, my apologies. It's just . . . House just doesn't have a reputation for being romantic."

"I know," Roz said. "He tends to hide it pretty well. Take it from me, it's there."

"Most men have a romantic side to them," Sarah said. "They've been taught not to show it, but when you give them a chance to indulge, they have fun."

The conversation turned toward romance and how both sexes expressed it. Eventually Roz patted Kris's hands.

"Thank you, that was wonderful," she said, and meant it. Her shoulders and upper back were relaxed and knot-free for the first time in ages. "Be right back."

She used the bathroom, then went into the kitchen to grab a calzone. While she was choosing Remy came in. To Roz's mild surprise the other woman faced her, looking a bit nervous.

"I really didn't mean to be a jerk," she said. "It's just that I've only ever seen House in one capacity, and he's not exactly a sweetheart at work."

Roz nodded. "He isn't in general. I didn't take offense." She studied Remy for a moment. "Can I ask why he calls you Thirteen?"

"In-joke," Remy said. "He was told to get a new team when his old one quit and he didn't want to, so he hired forty people and used process of elimination to find the three he really wanted."

"I get it," Roz said. She lifted the waxed paper on the box of calzones and took a mushroom and cheese. "He told me it was the age you lost your virginity."

Remy laughed. "Off by a year," she said. "I was twelve." She came over and peered into the box. "Are these good? I've never had one."

"Only the best," Roz said, and pulled the waxed paper back a bit more. "You don't have to watch what you say around me," she said quietly. "I don't have any illusions about how Greg treats people. He can be mean, rude and impatient. But I will stand by him. He's my guy and I love him."

"Fair enough," Remy said. She took a pepper and onion calzone. "Has he called you yet?"

"Yeah," Roz said with a smile. "I'm sure he'll call again. I hope he will anyway. I want him to know he can do that, even when he bugs the hell out of me just because he can."

Remy shook her head. "You have it bad," she said, but she sounded pleased.

"There's some great things to love about Greg House. You just have to be patient and persistent," Roz said. "I'm an electrician. It comes natural."

Remy laughed. "I'm a doctor and it should be that way for me too, but it isn't." She gave Roz a speculative look. "You wire more than houses?"

"You do more than diagnose patients?" Roz countered. Remy grinned.

"I see why he likes you," she said, and slipped out of the kitchen. Roz watched her go, a little puzzled but a bit more enlightened too. When her phone rang she rolled her eyes but answered it. She'd just said she would encourage him to do this; now she had to pay the price for her noble-sounding words.

"_Cosa voui,_ _ragazzaccio_?" she said, doing her best to sound stern.

"Aw, you're practicing for the trip. How sweet," Greg said.

"I don't have to practice, Italian is my second language."

"Stop gloating," Greg said. "By the way, I'm not a brat. No one's called me that for over forty years now."

"I'll start a new trend then," Roz said. "What is it?"

"You're obviously not drunk yet, so I'll skip to the next question. Are Laynie and Thirteen in a clinch on the couch? If so, can I come over and watch?"

"No and no. Who won the game?" Roz asked, all innocence.

"You're having an orgy, aren't you? It's mean to hold out on details," Greg whined. "At least tell me who kissed who first. I can live off that crumb until tomorrow night."

"No. I love you," Roz said, and hung up. She picked up her calzone and went into the living room. "My husband-to-be thinks we're having an orgy," she said. "It would be cruel to disappoint him."

"Care to explain?" Sarah said after a moment.

"Sure," Roz said. "Here's the plan . . ." She outlined her idea to the others and soon the room rang with laughter.

"It's perfect!" Chitra said. "I'm up for this, let's do it!"

They planned their strategy amid a great deal of joking and snark. Eventually however, energy levels began to flag. It had been a long day for everyone, and so it didn't take much encouragement to get them started on going to bed. Roz began to clean up but was scolded and sent off to relax while the others made quick work of the proceedings.

At last only Sarah and Roz were left downstairs. They sat on the couch together, watching the fire.

"How are you feeling?" Sarah asked after a little while.

"Good." Roz slid down a little and tipped her head back against Sarah's shoulder. "Thank you for this."

Sarah gave her a gentle hug. "You're welcome, sis. Glad to do it." She tucked a lock of hair behind Roz's ear. "Everything's ready?"

"Yup." Roz sighed softly. "It still doesn't feel quite real, like it's not really happening. I never thought I'd ever find someone, and then when I did, I found a truly amazing someone. But Sare, I just don't get what he sees in me. He's worked with some of the best minds on the planet. He's _got_ one of the best minds. I'm just me, you know? I understand code and I like math, but that's the extent of my brain power."

"You love him as he is," Sarah said. "You want to be with him, you're willing to work with him when things get difficult, but you won't allow yourself to be trampled or pushed. I don't think anyone has ever offered that to him before."

"You do," Roz said.

"As a friend, yes. You're his friend and his lover. It took him a while to accept it, but now he does." Sarah was silent a moment. "He's endured some terrible betrayals, and as a consequence his scars go deep. That he was able to open to you says a lot. Remember that when he's being obnoxious, because he's really, really good at that, in case you hadn't noticed."

"No, it's never come up," Roz said, and they both chuckled.

"He values the truth," Sarah said after a while. "You're a singularly honest woman, Roz. It won't be easy for either of you, but truthfulness is your second greatest strength besides your love for each other. I think that will make everything else worthwhile."

"Thanks," Roz said.

"Well, you need your beauty sleep," Sarah said after a long, comfortable lull. "Big day tomorrow."

"I'll need all the sleep I can get," Roz said wryly, and was surprised when Sarah faced her.

"You're beautiful in every way," she said. Her sea-green eyes held affection and sincerity. "Greg saw it too. Trust me. Watch his face tomorrow when you come into the room. You'll see."

Later, as Roz lay in Greg's bed, she breathed in his scent and hoped what Sarah had said was true. When her phone rang she answered it, smiling.

"Hey, _amante_."

"Well hello to you too," her mother said. She sounded vaguely amused and very drunk. "Guess you were expecting someone else to call."

Roz sat straight up, her tiredness fled. "How did you get this number?" she demanded.

"Jay gave it to me," Marina said, obviously unconcerned. Roz gritted her teeth and made a note to get her cousin in a corner and tear strips off him. "So what did you do to sucker this guy into marrying you? Are you knocked up? It won't hold him. Your dad didn't stay around, this one won't either."

"It isn't like that," Roz said, and was proud her voice was steady. "If you show your face tomorrow I'll have your ass hauled off to jail."

"Aw, c'mon baby. I won't show up, don't worry." Marina coughed long and hard. "Guess you think you really love 'im," she said finally. She was wheezing now. Roz closed her eyes and loathed the mix of rage and reluctant compassion roiling inside her; she always felt as if she was being torn apart when she had to talk to her mother.

"I _know_ I do," Roz said. "I really do love him. That makes me a total asshole in your eyes, I'm sure."

"It makes you a hell of a lot smarter than me," Marina said. "I won't bother you again. Just—be happy or somethin', okay? Be happy." And she was gone. Roz ended the call and jumped when the phone rang immediately before she could block the number. She grabbed it, slammed the talk button and said

"Mom, leave me _alone!_"

"What-your mother called?" Greg said, his voice rising. "Are you okay?"

Roz froze. _Shit._ This was going from bad to worse. "I'm-she—she just—dammit!" She thumped her fist on the bed. "Why did she have to call tonight of all nights?"

"Get Sarah," Greg said. "Get her now. Do it!" he snapped when she hesitated.

"Yeah—yeah, okay," she said, and headed off to find her friend, knowing Greg was right.

Five minutes later Sarah sat next to her on the bed, with Greg on speakerphone. "What did Marina say?" Sarah asked.

"She . . . she called to ask me if I was really getting married." Roz sighed. "She wanted to know if I was pregnant and trying to hold onto Greg that way. It was what she did with my dad, getting knocked up with me, but it didn't work." She swallowed, pushing back the memory of schoolyard taunts about her parents, sly digs from people on the job, at the store, even at Poppi's restaurant when she was waitressing. "I told her if she showed I'd have her arrested. She's got a ton of bench warrants out on her."

"She won't come here," Sarah said quietly. "She just wanted to talk to you."

"You can't possibly be taking her mother's side," Greg said, incredulous.

"I'm saying Marina wanted to check on Roz because this is her little girl getting married," Sarah said. "She's selfish and narcissistic and always has been, but that doesn't mean she can't feel some love for her daughter and want her to be happy."

"Just because you hoped for that from your own mother, don't project it onto this bitch," Greg growled.

"I'm not," Sarah said quietly, but Roz saw her flinch. "My mom could have cared less that I'd found someone, I'm well aware of that fact."

"How did she get your number?" Greg wanted to know. Roz took Sarah's hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.

"She said Jay gave it to her."

"Be right back." There was a brief silence, then Jay's voice came on the phone.

"Roz—what's goin' on?"

"You tell me," she said tartly. "Marina just called here, she said you gave her my number."

"_What?_" Jay's genuine shock was plain. "Rosie, no _way!_ That bitch! She's lyin'!"

"Then how did . . ." Roz paused, her stomach sinking. "Oh my god," she said. "She's at Poppi's house."

"Shit!" Jay swore. "Call the sheriff. I'm goin' down there." He disappeared and after a moment Greg said sharply

"You think she broke into Lou's place?"

"Yeah," Roz said, her head in her hand. "She won't hurt anyone, she's just drunk. I bet she got my number off Poppi's speed dial."

"I'll call the sheriff right now," Sarah said, and went out to get the cordless phone.

After half an hour's confusion, it turned out her mother had indeed broken into Poppi's house and called from there; he was still at the restaurant, cleaning up from the day's work. Marina was now in custody, on her way to jail. "I don't want to see her," Roz said. She was tired, her earlier anger and anxiety fading into exhaustion. "Dammit, I should have known. She's always done this."

"Are you okay?" Greg asked. Roz heard the deep anxiety behind his words and did her best to lighten things up.

"I'm fine, but you might reconsider taking me on now that you really know how nuts my mother is."

"I'm not marrying _her_," Greg said. "Besides, she'll be stuck in jail for a while." He didn't speak for a moment. "I can come home," he said, but he sounded uncertain. Roz glanced at Sarah, who smiled but said nothing.

"I'm okay," Roz said. She knew he wasn't good at comforting, and hauling him all the way here just so she could hold his hand was selfish on her part. "I want you, but that was true before this happened. How about you?" she asked quietly. "Are you all right?"

His snort of amusement surprised her. "I've dealt with worse and have the scars to prove it," he said. "Okay then."

"Okay," Roz said. She ended the call and was astonished when she felt tears sliding down her cheeks. Sarah didn't look surprised or dismayed; instead she gathered Roz up and held her close.

"That's better," Sarah said after the storm had passed. "But you can't get married looking like someone punched you in the face." She got up and went out into the quiet house, to return with a washcloth. Roz took the cold compress and held it to her swollen eyes. "Tell me what you're feeling."

"Why does she always show up at the worst times? She tries to ruin everything good that ever happens to me," Roz said with some bitterness.

She hasn't ruined anything unless you allow her to," Sarah said gently. "But I would suggest you think about what she said, sis. She was trying to find out if you were happy, and she wants you to have a better life than she did."

Roz gave a shaky sigh. "She has a funny way of showing it."

"It's the only way she has," Sarah said. "All right, enough. We can talk about this later. I suggest a mild sedative and plenty of rest. Call your guy, he's worried about you." She gave Roz's shoulder a gentle pat. "I'll be right back with something to help you sleep."

Greg answered on the first ring. "What?" he asked, his voice sharp with anxiety.

"I just wanted to say goodnight," Roz said. "Everything's all right."

"You've been crying," he accused.

"Yes," she said. "My mother tends to cause that reaction. It's one of the reasons why I stay the hell away from her, she ruins my perfect looks."

That earned her a reluctant chuckle. "You'll have a tough time sleeping tonight."

"Sarah's getting me something to take." She picked up a pillow and hugged it to her, breathing in Greg's scent. "Will you be okay?"

"If people don't call me all night long, yeah." But she could tell he didn't really mean it. "Stop obsessing and get some rest. We have a lot to do. And I don't mean the wedding."

Roz smiled a little. She still hurt, she still felt scared, but at least she wasn't alone. "Yeah," she said. "Okay. I'll see you tomorrow. Goodnight, _amante_."

Sarah returned with a glass of warm milk, a mild sedative and a last few words.

"You're safe here, sis. You're among friends, and tomorrow you'll be with your husband. Get some rest now, there's a big day ahead. Okay?"

Roz thought it would take her forever to relax into sleep. She was out in five minutes.

**_Many thanks for reading. If you are so inclined, please leave a review. It would really make my day._**


	22. Chapter 22

**_(WARNING WARNING WARNING: MAJOR WEDDING FLUFF AHEAD. Don't say I didn't tell you. _**

**_All lyrics used without permission, no copyright infringement intended. I don't own anything except my own OCs.  
_**

**_Thanks to everyone who offered suggestions for Gene and Sarah's vacation destination. Congrats Glennie, you gave me the winning spot as agreed on by my muses! Sarah's gonna get such a burn . . . LOL!_**

**_Enjoy, and if you get a chance listen to the songs listed in this chapter. They're all excellent, IMHO. -B)  
_**

April 15th

8 a.m.

He wakes up with a first golden beam of sunlight slanting across the bed, illuminating the black fur of the cat curled up next to his legs. He blinks a little, buries his nose in the pillow that smells like his woman, and watches dust motes dance. It's Friday morning, and tonight he's getting married.

Sleep proves elusive after that, so he rises finally, giving the cat a little scritch under the chin before he pulls on his bathrobe—at least Roz didn't steal it from him for once, mainly because he hid it at the bottom of the dirty laundry—and goes outside for a smoke. He hasn't had one in a while and feels a need at the moment.

The morning is a bright one, chilly but full of sun and hints of spring: a faint haze of green under the mounds of melting snow, buds on the trees, and a soft blue sky with a few clouds overhead. He watches the new day arrive and acknowledges with some reluctance the presence of a feeling like enjoyment or maybe even happiness in his secret heart. The pristine dawn and the clean, sharp air bring back the memory of a dream; his ride down the lone highway in Sarah's truck echoes deep within. The hope and possibility scare him, but equally they draw him forward to a future he's never dared to imagine. At the end of the day, quite literally, there is a woman waiting to become his wife and begin a new life with him. He still isn't sure how this all happened, but when he prods his feelings a bit more gingerly, he's relieved to find he's ready to follow where this path leads.

It's too cold to linger; he shivers as he takes a last hit, puts out the smoke and goes into the kitchen, to start the coffeemaker and find some breakfast.

_9:30 a.m._

Lou pulled into the spot next to Kris's Buick and got out. It was going to be a nice spring day full of sun and clouds, a truthful omen for this particular couple on their wedding. Well, he'd take honesty over false reassurance, as would both bride and groom. _Auguri,_ he thought, and went into the house with his garment bag over his shoulder.

Sarah was in the kitchen, taking a pan of cinnamon rolls out of the oven. On the counter was a small plate with a large, half-eaten piece of San Marzano cake and a cup of tea. Sarah came forward to give him a hug and a kiss. Lou glanced with raised brows at the cake.

"For breakfast?"

"I couldn't resist, it's too delicious." Sarah gave him a searching look. "You're tired," she said. "How did it go last night with your daughter?"

He knew she'd endured similar events in her own life and wasn't asking out of prurient interest. "I didn't post Marina's bail," he said. "She'll be held until the trial. At least that way she won't make more trouble."

Sarah nodded. "Good. I know that wasn't easy for you."

Lou looked away. "It never was and never will be."

Sarah put a gentle hand on his arm. Her compassion warmed him a little.

"I'm just about to deliver the first wakeup call to everyone," she said after a moment. "Help yourself to some coffee and a cinnamon roll when you're ready. Roz is in Greg's room, I think she's awake."

He found his granddaughter more or less upright and sipping a cup of coffee. He sat next to her and took a look around the room. It was cleaner than he'd expected, almost utilitarian, but there were a few things here and there, some books, a vase, a battered old catcher's mitt, that spoke of the man who loved his Rosamundi. Lou found no fault with what he saw. "_Buongiorno, 'bina,_" he said.

"_Buongiorno, _Poppi," she said, and leaned in for a hug. "What happened with Mom?" she asked after a few moments.

"She won't bother any of us for a while," Lou said, and felt the pain talking about Marina always caused, but not as strong now. "I'm sorry she tried to ruin things."

"It's not your fault," Roz said. "She's always done this. I guess we should have been ready for it to happen." She kissed his cheek. "I'm so glad you're here," she said quietly. "Did you get any sleep last night?"

"Some," he said, reluctant to reveal just how late he'd gone to bed.

"Why don't you have breakfast and then lie down for a while? We're doing girl stuff all morning and you won't have to set up any of the catering and get dressed until later this afternoon. I'm going to strip the sheets and put on clean ones anyway, you could take a nap in here," she said.

"Greg wouldn't like having me in his room," Lou said.

"He understands the situation. He called me earlier this morning and I asked if it was okay. He said yes," Roz said. Lou put a hand to her cheek, his pride in her welling up deep inside. He and his wife had gladly taken on raising this forthright and vulnerable girl and loved her more than life itself, doing their best to keep her away from the depredations of her mother's demons. Now she was finding her own path, and it was a good one.

"You're so much like your Nana," he said. "You and Greg will be all right."

Roz smiled, her green eyes brightening with happiness. "_Grazie,_ Poppi. I'll get you some coffee and a roll." She gave him a hug and a kiss and stood, stretching, then slipped out into the main room.

_11 a.m._

Gene pulled the car into a parking spot in front of the barber shop and turned off the engine, watching as the younger men piled out to head into Gordy's place. He and Greg looked at each other.

"Now or never," Gene said. Greg hesitated.

So this is the point of no return," he said. Gene heard the half-joking, half-serious tone in the statement/question and knew Greg wasn't talking about getting his hair cut.

"I think you made your decision a while back," he said. "It was a good one, too."

"At the debauch you said we lucked out," Greg said. Gene nodded.

"Yeah, we did. It's the truth. I discovered that the hard way before I found Sarah." He thought about what he would say next, weighing his words with care. "Sare's the best. She's got her flaws, so do I, and there are times when I wonder what the hell goes on in that brain of hers. When we fight, it hurts and it takes a while for the pain to go away. But I'd still rather be with her. I think you feel much the same way about Roz."

"Yeah," Greg said after a few moments. He didn't say anything more, just clambered out of the car.

Gordy was ready for them. He looked a little thinner, a little grayer, but still spruce and tidy in his white jacket, the paper draped over the arm of his chair. There was a young guy with him. "My grandson Andy," Gordy said. "He's got some experience on him, don't worry."

Andy proved to be out of the same mold as his grandfather—steady, quiet, competent. He took on Will as Greg settled into Gordy's chair.

"Some off the top, short on the sides," Greg said. "And a good close shave."

"That's a real considerate act on behalf of your wife-to-be," Gordy said with a slight grin, and the other men in the room chuckled. Gene sat back, enjoying the atmosphere. This reminded him of home—the familiar faces, the easy comraderie, the radio on a sports talk station. Even the smell of Bay Rum felt right.

As he waited, Gene thought of his own wedding day. He and Sarah had only had each other, but she'd stood with him steady as a rock in the quiet church, and her responses had been without hesitation.

"Better not take too much off the top. The glare will blind everyone in the place," he said to Greg, who flipped him the bird.

"That must really suck," Will said. He sounded a little smug.

"I'll slip you a c-note to give him a tonsure," Greg said to Andy, who pretended to consider it, his hand sliding toward the clipper. Will's eyes widened.

"Hey!" he said in indignation, and went red as everyone laughed.

When Gordy finished with Greg, Gene gave a low whistle.

"You clean up pretty damn good," he said.

"Gonna marry him now?" Singh said, grinning.

"Keep it up and the next time we share a shift I'll tell everyone you're there because it's Bring A Daughter To Work Day," Greg said. Chase snickered. Greg speared him with a glare. "Don't laugh, wombat. Why the hell do you think I kept _you_ around all that time? You gave me my affirmative action quota twice over."

"I thought that was Thirteen," Chase said in mild indignation. Greg snorted and rubbed his chin. Gene couldn't help but watch him. It really was amazing the change a simple shave made. Greg looked younger, less vulnerable somehow. Even as Gene thought it Greg nodded at him. "Time to get those jug handles lowered, Gunney."

When everyone had taken a turn in the chair they walked down to the bar, just opening its doors at noon, to grab a beer and a relaxing rack or two of pool before returning to Roz's place to get cleaned up and dressed.

_4 p.m._

Sarah slowly opened the door to Greg's room. Lou had left half an hour before, so the coast was clear. She stood there for a moment, gathering her courage. Finally she walked in, a quick nervous step over the threshold because it was the first time she'd entered without permission, closed the door behind her and sat down on the bed.

It was uncharacteristically neat in here; Roz must have picked things up when she changed the sheets. The comforter wasn't bunched in lumpy mountains, the pillows weren't piled up in a corner, there were no books stacked on the floor by the nightstand, no plate of cookies filched from the kitchen in some midnight raid, and not a single item of dirty laundry to be seen. And yet the occupant's character was still apparent everywhere, from the shelf of books and a few small _objets d'art _to the bat and mitt propped in the corner and a flannel tossed with careless abandon over the easy chair by the fireplace.

_After tonight he won't live here anymore,_ Sarah thought, and with that the tears that had been threatening all morning filled her eyes and fell down her cheeks. She didn't try to stop them, her arms wrapped tight around herself as she rocked a little, trying to deal with the bittersweet pain flooding her heart.

_My boy's grown up._ She knew it was a ridiculous sentiment, but it was how she felt. In the nearly two years since she'd first found him sitting in a corner chair in her office waiting for his initial session to begin, pinning her with his best hard, defiant glare, alone, in pain and scared, she had come to love him as if he truly was her own son. She'd grown to know him, learned to enjoy the facets of his complex nature; his brilliant mind, his humor, his well-hidden deep compassion, even his sarcasm and nasty comebacks. Despite her mistakes with him he had eventually given her his trust—there was no greater honor, she knew—and apparently he even felt some real affection for her. And now he was moving away to start his own life, and nothing would be the same ever again.

_You knew this would happen,_ she scolded herself. _You worked for it, and so did he. He's found the healing you wanted for him. You can't wish him back in pain and loneliness just so you can hang onto him. Don't be selfish. You did this so he could finally discover what it is to truly love and be loved. Remember the line from the song—love's what we'll remember. Be happy, not sad._

The lecture didn't work. "Oh," she groaned out loud, "dammit, it's no good, I can't help it," and she gave in to a total howl, complete with runny nose and swollen eyes. Blubbering like a five-year-old, she used her dressing gown sleeve as a blotter, her bottom lip quivering as fresh tears welled. She was a disgusting wreck; if he came in and found her like this he'd kick her ass from here to Albany for being a horrible weenie, and rightly so. She sniffled and yanked on a curl, using the small pain to pull away from a larger one.

"Come on, Corbett," she muttered, hard and fierce. "Get over this or you'll be here all day throwin' this pity party, and you've got other things to do."

It took some effort, but after a moment she forced herself to lift the Martin six-string from its spot in Greg's chair. She held it for a while, letting the feel of it comfort her, the curves of the instrument pressed against her body. Then she put her hands in place. When the chords formed under her fingers she began to smile, and then tears gave way to rueful laughter and acknowledgment as the song played her.

_wear it out (the way a three-year-old would do)_

_melt it down (you're gonna have to eventually anyway)_

_the fire trucks are comin' up around the bend . . . _

_you grieve you learn, you choke you learn,_

_you laugh you learn, you choose you learn,_

_you pray you learn, you ask you learn,_

_you live, you learn . . ._

_6:45 p.m._

Roz checked her hair in the mirror a final time. Even she had to admit it looked nice for once, smooth and glossy. Both earrings were in place as well, she would never forgive herself if she lost one of the diamond studs Greg had given her. Her hands felt odd in the black silk lace gloves, so unlike her tough old work mules; it was almost impossible to see her shortened little finger. She'd have to take off the glove to put on the ring, but it didn't really matter, no one would be able to see the scars in the dim light anyway, and she knew Greg wouldn't care.

"Hey." Sarah came into the room. In her simple black dress, her mass of red-gold ringlets cascading down her back, she was a far cry from the woman in a barn coat and knee-deep in cow manure mucking out Bob's cow barn, or the friend curled up on the couch watching silly movies and trading snark. Then she smiled, and there she was—just Sarah. Roz noticed her eyes were a little swollen, and as a consequence the makeup was applied with extra care; no one who didn't know her would have noticed. _She's been crying,_ Roz thought, and knew why.

"Hey." She moved forward as Sarah held out something, a long, thin black velvet box. "What's this?"

"Something new," Sarah said. "You have all the others, right?"

"Yes," Roz said. Old was Nana's rosary, placed with care inside a clever little pocket in her skirt; borrowed was the seashell necklace she'd given Sarah for Christmas; blue was a frivolous frilly garter made of blue lace and currently residing just above her right knee. She took the box and opened it. Her eyes widened in shock. "Oh my _god_," she whispered. Nestled inside was a slender bracelet made of matched white diamonds.

"From your husband-to-be," Sarah said, smiling. "He said to tell you this is what you get for not letting him buy you a decent stone for your engagement ring." She reached into the box and took out the bracelet, holding it with care. "May I?"

It fitted Roz's wrist perfectly, winking and glittering against the soft black lace. "He should have put the money into the clinic," she said, stricken and delighted at the same time.

"He treasures you," Sarah said. "Let him do it, sis. Not many people have allowed him the chance to spoil them."

Roz nodded, then looked up at her friend. "I promise you, I'll take good care of him," she said softly. "I know you're giving him into my keeping and it's hard for you because you love him too."

Sarah nodded, her smile widening as she came forward and gave Roz a gentle hug. "Thanks," she whispered. "I want him to take care of you too, sis. I love you just as much." Then she set Roz back a step and smoothed down her dress with careful hands. "All right, enough now or we'll both ruin our makeup." She took a breath. "Ready?"

Roz closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them. "Yes." She leaned in and kissed Sarah's cheek. "Thanks for everything," she whispered.

"_Tá fáilte romhat, mo dheirfiúr_." Sarah returned the kiss and gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze.

The rest of the women were waiting in the hallway. As Roz emerged they grouped around her.

"You look fantastic," Remy said with complete sincerity, her pale eyes bright with admiration and humor. "I'm betting House won't make it through the ceremony, he'll ravish you here and now."

They went down the stairs in the order they'd decided on the night before; because Greg had vetoed a rehearsal, the plan had been put together in secret. Now Laynie, Remy and Chitra went first. When they'd cleared the stairs Roz began her descent, with Kris and Sarah following when she reached the halfway point. As the living room came into view, Roz could see the furniture had been moved against the walls to make room for everyone. Greg, handsome and elegant in an all-black ensemble—he'd refused the green tie and white shirt—was waiting for her with Gene on one side and the other men of the groom's party grouped next to them, along with the Unitarian minister they'd asked to perform the ceremony. The rest of the guests, a small but still substantial company, sat on folding chairs borrowed from the fire hall. The whole area was lit only with the soft glow of the hurricane lamps and the settled blaze in the fireplace. Greg's face was lifted to watch her, and his expression made Roz glad she wore ballet flats with a nonslip sole so she wouldn't trip. The delighted surprise, the desire and powerful longing she saw there made her legs shaky, and reminded her of Sarah's comment from the day before.

As Roz moved down one slow step after the other, music filled the room—a surprise, since she and Greg had agreed there would be no wedding march. But this wasn't a traditional offering. After a few bars of intro, Paul McCartney's familiar tenor began a song everyone knew well.

_Maybe I'm amazed at the way you love me all the time_

_maybe I'm afraid of the way I love you . . ._

_baby I'm amazed at the way you're with me all the time_

_maybe I'm afraid of the way I leave you_

_baby I'm amazed at the way you help me sing my song, right me when I'm wrong_

_maybe I'm amazed at the way I really need you . . ._

She descended the steps in tempo with the song. At the bottom of the stairs Poppi waited to escort her. He kissed her cheek as she clasped his arm.

"You're beautiful," he said. "I always knew it, now everyone else does too."

"Thank you," she whispered as they started forward. She moved straight to Greg, who never took his eyes off her. Her smile grew as she approached; he extended his hands, taking both of hers in a gentle but firm grasp as Poppi released her and stepped to the side. Greg saw the bracelet and gave her a triumphant smirk, his brilliant gaze full of love and amusement, and she knew then no matter what happened, there would never be anyone else for her. His lean fingers clasped hers, cool and steady, as the minister came forward. She beamed at the group.

"Beloved family and friends, welcome. We are gathered together this evening to celebrate the marriage of Gregory House and Rosa deGroot in this beautiful home full of light and love. It is our privilege and honor to witness this union and share this joyful event with Gregory and Rosa.

"One of our greatest strengths as humans is the ability to create community. The best way we do this is through the personal relationships that strengthen and define us. Marriage is a powerful and sacred bond, resilient, protective, and healing. We know completion when we love and are loved; we find our place in the vast, unending sphere of the universe, and help others to do the same.

"Thus, a marriage cannot exist in wholeness without the support of the community surrounding it. I ask those who represent Gregory and Rosa's families to offer a promise of support. If you are willing, signify by saying 'we do'."

"We do." The response was loud and strong. Roz remembered when Greg had talked with his mother about attending the wedding and they'd reached a mutual decision for her not to come up. The amount of detachment she showed around Greg despite her obvious love for him was unfathomable to Roz, but both Blythe and Greg had seemed relieved that she wasn't going to attend. Now Roz understood why; the people Greg considered his real family stood here with them.

"Friends of Gregory and Rosa, I now ask you for the same sign. If you are willing to offer a promise of support, signify by saying 'we do'."

"We do!" The rafters rang with the affirmation. Roz gave Greg's hands a gentle squeeze, fighting to keep tears out of her eyes. She knew all too well most people in the village would see her no differently than they had before, would consider Greg a fool for taking her on, but now it didn't really matter. They had true friends here.

"The rings please." Gene took the small box from his pocket, opened it and handed the rings to the minister, who held them in the palm of her hand.

"The ring is an unending circle, like the eternal cycle of life, death and rebirth," she said. "It is a symbol of unity and of how your two lives are now joined together."

When Roz placed the ring on Greg's finger she said softly "I give you this ring to wear as a sign of my love for you, Gregory House." She started to remove her glove, only to have Greg stop her. With great tenderness he eased the silky lace from her scarred arm, put the ring on her finger, then raised her hand to his lips, brushing a kiss over the back. His blue eyes were intent, searching.

"I give you this ring to wear as a symbol of our maniacal desire to drive each other crazy day in, day out for the rest of our lives," he said, and Roz laughed along with everyone else because there was truth in what he said and she loved him for saying it. "I think you're pretty cool for a girl, Roz deGroot."

"Because they have pledged themselves to meet sorrow and joy together as a family, and by the power vested in me by the state of New York, rejoice with me in recognizing Gregory and Rosa House as husband and wife, now joined in marriage." The minister gave them a broad smile. "Kiss each other already."

_9 p.m._

The dining room has been set up as a buffet line, with chairs placed in groups in the main room. Greg is sitting with Roz at the bridal party's table, working on his third glass of a surprisingly delicious asti, crisp, cold and dry. They've already cut the cake and fed each other a bite; she wouldn't let him smear it on her face, so he deliberately dropped crumbs down her cleavage instead. Now she's sipping asti without a care in the world, her hand clasping his. In her beautiful dress she looks even better to eat than the cake, with her smooth slender body rising out of the peridot-green silk bodice, the diamonds he gave her glittering through the dark satin bob of her hair, and on her wrist. She's gorgeous and delectable and he wants all this nonsense done so he can take her home, peel her out of her finery and make love to her until they're both too spent to move.

People are tapping their glasses; they want a kiss. Roz glances at him, brows raised. He rolls his eyes and they lean toward each other. He's expecting a peck on the cheek but instead Roz presses her lips to his, her tongue touching the corner of his mouth. Her eyes are moss-green and full of mischief. He deliberately nips her bottom lip, just a gentle little tug. There is a flash of scorching hot desire in those green eyes, and then everyone is applauding them.

"Is it time to leave yet?" he growls.

"We have to dance together first," she reminds him, and rises to her feet. "I'll be right back."

A few minutes later she returns and offers him her hand. He gets to his feet, intensely aware of everyone watching them, and goes with her to the center of the room. He's been dreading this, but when he faces Roz she eases into his arms, her face lifted to his, and just that fast there is no one else, only her. The music starts to play.

_If I could save time in a bottle, the first thing that I'd like to do_

_is to save every day till eternity passes away just to spend them with you _

He can't really do more than shuffle a few careful steps; he feels a moment of the old pain and bitterness at the limitations his disability forces him to endure. But to his surprise, the moment fades. Somehow now, when he's in this woman's arms, it doesn't really seem to matter that much anymore, because it doesn't matter to her.

_if I could make days last forever, if words could make wishes come true_

_I'd save every day like a treasure and then, again, I would spend them with you_

He knows this is a horribly sentimental choice for a wedding song; he'd thought about something totally different, death metal or Monty Python or even some hideous cliché like 'We've Only Just Begun', but he wants Roz to know how he feels about her, and this song says it all in ways he can never manage.

_but there never seems to be enough time to do the things you want to do once you find them_

_I've looked around enough to know that you're the one I want to go through time with_

She is moving with him, her gaze resting on his face, and in her eyes he sees the things he's come to prize about her over the months in which they've grown to know each other. There's no starry euphoria or unrealistic expectations in that look; instead he finds a steady, powerful love and regard, honest and open, quiet and deep. It's what he's always been searching for, though he never really understood that before now.

_if I had a box just for wishes, and dreams that had never come true_

_the box would be empty except for the memory of how they were answered by you_

_but there never seems to be enough time to do the things you want to do once you find them_

_I've looked around enough to know that you're the one I want to go through time with . . . _

The song ends, they kiss and there is a sort of soft rustling sigh from the watching crowd before they offer a round of applause. He starts to move out of the center of the room but Roz holds him in place. "We're not done just yet," she whispers as another song starts up. He hears the opening bars and stares at her in surprise. A reluctant grin tugs at his mouth.

"You _stinker_," he says. Roz flashes him her smartass smile, eyes sparkling with glee.

"Shut up and dance, buster," she says, and he laughs.

"Pushing me around already, that has to be a record." But he complies, his hands sliding to her hips as she does the same. The floor fills with other people paired off and alone, laughing and talking while the music plays.

_Believe me you really don't have to worry, I only wanna make you happy_

_and if you say 'hey go away' I will_

_but I think better still I'd better stay around and love you_

_do you think I have a case? let me ask you to your face_

_do you think you love me? I think I love you . . . _

The real dancing begins then. Gene and Sarah made a mix list and it's a good one. Greg takes Roz back to their seats. "Half an hour and we're out of here," he says. Roz looks at him, then nods.

"Okay," she says, and there's that grin again. She wants him as much as he wants her. She picks up her glass and taps it against his. "Done."

They watch people bop through the Reflections singing 'Romeo and Juliet' and 'She's Just My Style' by Gary Lewis and the Playboys. Roz's foot is tapping, but she seems content to sit with him.

"Go dance with someone," he says finally.

"I'm happy where I am," she says.

"You're dying to dance."

"I'm gonna dance. Right now I want to be here with you."

He sips his asti. "You don't have to sit out dances because I can't shake a bad leg."

"I know." She says it without a shred of condescension or sympathy. "I told you, I'm gonna dance one more time before we leave. You'll see."

"You have something planned?" he probes, but all she does is smile.

True to her word, three songs later Sarah comes onto the floor. In her little black dress she looks New York cool and good enough to eat. "Girls only!" she announces. Roz lets go of Greg's hand and gets to her feet. He watches with interest as she is escorted to the center of the makeshift dance floor and all the women surround her, holding hands. The song starts to play; he recognizes it as Corrine Bailey Rae, one of Roz's favorites. Now he understands: this is the women in his wife's community offering love, support and friendship, wishing her well. He's never seen anything like this before. It's fascinating, and he's glad for her. She needs this reassurance, because it's something he can't give her.

At the end of the song they all come up and embrace Roz, laugh and kiss her cheek. Then she's escorted back to him. Greg gets to his feet, brings her to his side. "Thank you, you've been a great crowd, but we are OUTTA here," he says loudly, and gives a slight bow to a round of applause and friendly catcalls.

There is a brief delay in their escape while Roz changes out of her finery in the downstairs bathroom. When she emerges she has on a silk sweater and black velvet pants; she's still wearing the diamonds though, and her new wedding ring gleams on her finger. They both bundle into their coats and suddenly they're walking through a storm of something that looks like flower petals, congratulations and best wishes. Sarah and Gene are waiting beside Barbarella with the door open and the engine running. Sarah gives him a quick hug.

"So glad for you, son," she says, and he hears the little catch in her voice. "Have a wonderful night. See you tomorrow."

He holds her close for a moment. She is the main reason why he's here now, not living alone in pain and misery. He owes her all his life has become. "Thank you," he says very softly. She gives him a gentle squeeze.

"My pleasure," she says, and draws back a bit to smile at him, her sea-grey eyes full of that powerful affection that always mystifies and comforts him at the same time. There are tears there too, but he knew that would happen, she's a terrible weenie about this kind of thing. Then Gene is saying

"Have a great time. There's pizza and beer in the fridge if you two ever make it out of the bedroom."

Roz laughs at that and half-throttles Gene with a hug, then embraces Sarah. "See you tomorrow, thanks for everything," she says. Then they pile into the car and make good their escape, Roz giggling as Greg burns rubber in the lane.

"Bob's gonna kill you," she says, and leans over to kiss him. "Hurry up, I wanna see you naked."

They break every speed limit in the entire county even though she lives just across town.

_11 p.m._

"Dance with me?"

Sarah looked at Gene's hand held out to her. Without hesitation she stood and went out to the dance floor, smiling as Clint Black began to sing.

"Our song," she said, and put her arms around him. "You snuck it on there."

"Can't have a wedding without dancin' to this one." He held her close. "Remember when we foudn that little honky-tonk outside Tulsa, after the wedding? We put this on the jukebox and the bartender gave us a round on the house."

"'course I do." She sighed and put her cheek to his chest. "I was thinkin' about asking if you'd like to renew vows with me, but after all this work I'm not so sure I wanna do it."

"Now that's funny, because I was thinkin' the same thing. About renewing our vows and all, I mean," Gene said. He stopped and put his hand under her chin, tipped her face to his. "We're takin' two weeks away to do just that."

Sarah stopped. He meant it; his dark eyes held love and determination in equal amounts. "Two weeks? We said just one . . . where?" she asked, suddenly suspicious.

"Paradise, baby," he said, smiling. "How's Key West sound?"

She gasped. "_Gene_ . . ." He swung her around and she clung to him, laughing. "_Gene__!_ You're a crazy man!"

"Crazy with love for you," he smirked, and then paused to kiss her. "Say I do," he whispered.

"I do," she said, smiling up at him. "Oh, you bet I do."

_These times are troubled and these times are good_

_They're always gonna be, they rise and they fall_

_We take 'em all the way that we should, together you and me_

_Forsaking them all_

_Deep in the night and by the light of day, it always looks the same_

_True love always does_

_And here by your side or a million miles away_

_Nothin's ever gonna change the way that I feel_

_The way it is, is the way that it was _

_When I said I do I mean that I will till the end of all time_

_Be faithful and true, devoted to you_

_That's what I had in mind when I said I do . . . _

[H] [H] [H]_  
_

_'You Live You Learn,' Alanis Morrisette  
_

'_Maybe I'm Amazed', Paul McCartney_

'_Time in a Bottle', Jim Croce_

'_I Think I Love You', David Cassidy_

'_Romeo and Juliet', the Reflections_

'_She's Just My Style', Gary Lewis and the Playboys_

'_Girl Put Your Records On', Corinne Bailey Rae_

'_When I Said I Do', Clint Black and Lisa Hartman_

_**Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, please leave a review. It would really make my day. **  
_


	23. Chapter 23

**_(A/N: honeymoon fluff/sex ahead. We'll get Roz's pov in the next chapter. -B)_**

_April 22__nd_

"It's raining. Let's stay in today."

Greg shifts a little and looks at Roz, who is snuggled in at his side. "We're only here for another week or so," he warns.

"We can take a day to just be lazy, can't we?" She puts her small callused hand on the join of his hip and thigh and slips it toward his belly. She smiles. "See, someone else agrees with me."

"That part of me always agrees with you," he says, but he eases her into place straddling him, cupping her breasts as she sighs and settles in, smiling.

As they move in the familiar rhythm of lovemaking, he struggles to understand how it is that she isn't tired of him, of his limitations and imperfections. She's seen all his scars, heard all the stories; she knows his years of narcotics use have damaged his ability to get it up and keep going (regardless of Little Greg's eagerness). And he's just plain older. Sex is more work than it used to be. Yet she seems content with the pace his restrictions set.

"Why do you accept the way things are?" he asks later, as they lie together in a warm haze of afterglow. "Why don't you want something better?"

She strokes his hip. It's not just comfort; she likes touching him, and he has to admit he likes having her touch him. "This _is_ something better." Her lips brush a kiss over his arm. "Neither one of us is perfect. Who cares? Don't you feel pretty good right now?"

"Yeah, but—"

"You're saying I should be out looking for some muscle-bound idiot?"

He pretends to frown. "Your analogy suggests I'm a puny genius."

Roz snorts in amusement. "There is nothing puny about you, _amante_." Her hand moves over to his spent member. "Let me prove it."

"I just—I—don't . . . aaahhh," he groans as she starts working on him. She doesn't force the issue, she's slow and tender but she is relentless, sparing him no quarter as she brings him once more to erection. When her tongue swirls around him as if he's an ice cream cone his eyes roll back in his head, his fingers digging into the pillows as incredible sensations flood his body—something not quite pain or pleasure but a wild mix of both that sends the blood thundering through his veins, until he finally explodes and the world turns white and an unbearable glorious sweetness rushes through him. When he finally comes back to reality Roz is rubbing his belly in a slow, circular caress, and she's smiling.

"Think I proved my point," she says, and laughs when he can't even reply. Mischief gleams in her eyes as she kisses him and clambers out of bed, pulls on her silk bathrobe and heads into the kitchen to bring back cups of coffee with steamed milk, and slices of toast made of the crusty bread they bought from the _forno_ in town the day before, served with homemade peach jam from the _contessa's_ pantry.

It is pleasant to laze around together. At one point when Roz takes the tray back to the kitchen, he rootles among her things out of idle curiosity and finds a New York Times crossword puzzle book tucked among her clothes. Surprised, he picks it up, flips through it. Some of the puzzles he's already done, he remembers the clues from years past, but the rest are new. He hunts up a pen and tucks some pillows behind his back to keep the headboard from becoming uncomfortable, and goes to work.

"It's really coming down—" He looks up in time to see Roz pause in the doorway. Something flashes across her face—some strong emotion—but it's gone before he can classify it, though whatever it might have been, it wasn't pleasant. She comes into the bedroom and perches on the edge of the bed. Gone is the teasing happiness, the bright gaze.

"What's wrong?" he asks, a little more sharply than he'd intended. Roz doesn't answer him right away.

"We've been together a lot the last couple of weeks," she says quietly. He looks at her, then the crossword puzzle, and he gets it.

"You still have that wild hair about my being bored," he says. Roz doesn't say anything. He pats the spot next to him. After a few moments she scoots over and sits beside him. He slips an arm around her, waits until she finally relaxes and rests her head against his shoulder, a gesture characteristic of her. Then he reminds her of what's he's told her before, after they'd decided to marry.

"There will be times when I'm distracted or working on a case and I might not talk to you or even be around for a few days. I probably won't call or remember holidays or birthdays or special occasions when it happens, though I probably won't remember them anyway. It's because I'm preoccupied. When that happens everything and everyone else comes a very distant second. But this is not that, okay? You haven't gotten boring yet. You'll know if it happens."

The first time he'd told her this she'd agreed, though not without asking some thoughtful and pertinent questions that made him think she might understand the situation. Now he knows this is an old issue for her that will probably take time to overcome. It annoys the hell out of him that he has to deal with this again, that he'll have to reassure her in the future, but she's already done it for him and his issues; fair is fair.

"Why did you have this book in your stuff?" he asks.

"Laynie gave it to me as a joke," she says in a quiet voice.

"And you brought it because . . . ?"

"I thought it might come in handy." Her voice is even smaller now.

"I see. Well, since I have it open already, you can make up for your ridiculous anxieties by helping me solve a puzzle."

"You don't need me," she says, still in that flat tone that tells him she considers herself well below his mental capacity. Actually she is in some ways, but then so is everyone else. In other ways she's fully his equal.

"Your premise is invalid," he says. "I'm asking you to help. You want to or not?"

She thinks about it—something that delights and exasperates him in equal measure. "Okay," she says at last. "Though I have to tell you, I looked through the clues and most of them—" She looks away. "I don't know the answers."

"Then you'll learn something and I'll get to cop a feel or two," he says, and earns a reluctant smile.

It goes better than he thought it would. He does her the courtesy of teasing, not mocking her; she's honest about her ignorance and he respects that. It takes longer to solve the puzzle—about an hour or so past his usual fifteen to twenty minutes—but it's the most fun he's had with a crossword in ages because they talk about the clues and end up on all sorts of fascinating tangents. That's one of the things he likes about her, she's willing to explore avenues with him that annoy, baffle or confuse other people.

After finishing the puzzle they drift off to sleep together, and wake in the early afternoon to sunshine. They take their lunch outside and enjoy the soft breeze. Roz has been talking with the shop owners in the little town down the road, something he's watched with interest; she's so at home here, it's amusing to see her warm up to the natives and vice versa with her fluent, idiomatic Italian paving the way. The women who run the _frutta e verdura_ and the _forno_, the butcher who sells them superb Val di Chiana steaks and freshly killed chicken, have reciprocated by sharing their favorite recipes and sending them home with all sorts of wonderful treats not just because they're newlyweds, but also because they've made the effort to be friendly and communicate in the native language. As a result Roz is making the most incredible dishes he's ever had, simple but so delicious he can't resist stuffing himself. Now she's bringing out a big bowl of chopped spring greens and pasta with fresh _porcini_ mushrooms, caramelized onions and shavings of wild boar sausage mixed with the tender leaves of new basil and olive oil, green and delicious, pressed from the estate's own trees. There's local _pecorino_ to go on top, and Brunello to sip. They eat and listen to the sound of the wind in the trees and watch the sunshine shift in patches over the hills beyond the terrace. It's peaceful. He doesn't do peaceful. And yet this is a delight. It's even better when Roz takes his hand and sits back, closing her eyes. Her dark lashes lie against her cheek; her hair has coppery highlights only seen in sunshine. She's close enough for him to kiss, but he just wants to look at her. She tilts her face up to the sun, and he can see traces of Lou's features in her strong jawline, the slight arch of her nose, the high cheekbones.

"Margherita says we should visit the hot water falls by Saturnia. If we go early enough in the day we'll miss the crowds. There's a hotel, we could get some breakfast and then explore a little."

"Sounds good." In the past week he's done more walking than is usual for him but he's also been sleeping and exercising—he smirks at the word—and he feels deeply rested, energetic. As a consequence he can handle more activity. He hasn't even had to change the settings on the TENS unit.

Roz glances over at him. "Do you still want to go to Cortona?"

"Yeah." Sarah had given him a copy of Under the Tuscan Sun to read when she'd learned they were honeymooning here; Roz has read it too. She wants to see the town, maybe even catch a glimpse of Bramasole, the home at the heart of the book.

"Okay." She turns her face back to the sun. She's smiling a little. It softens her strong features, makes her look a bit like the Madonna in the fresco they examined the day before in some ancient little stone church where homemade bouquets of the first flowers of spring sat on the altar, and a cat slept curled up in a pew.

That evening, as they lie spooned together in bed watching the fire in the charming little tile stove that serves as heater and coffee warmer, Roz says quietly, "When we go back we'll have a lot of work ahead of us."

"All the more reason to live the next week in complete denial," he jokes. She smiles, but she's serious.

"I just . . . I want to help you with getting the clinic up and running."

This conversation is already making him nervous. "You're doing the wiring," he points out.

"Yeah, but I'd like to do more," she says, and then she floors him completely with her next statement. "I have a savings account I want to give to you."

Greg is silent for a while. "You mean the one you've had for years," he says finally. "The one Lou started for you when you were six years old."

"Mm-hmm." She brings her hand up to his face, her fingers stroking his bristly cheek; he's grown out his scruff once more at her request. "It's yours. And I'd like to give you part of my paycheck too."

This generosity is incomprehensible. "What do you want in return?" he demands, sure there's a catch somewhere. Roz sighs softly.

"I can't just give it to you because I want to?" She pinches his cheek gently. "So cynical."

"Come on," he warns. The anxiety is lifting a bit though, because she's lightened up and is teasing him. "Tell me."

"Okay, fine. How about . . . a date night twice a month? Just you and me. It can be pizza and beer in front of the tv, or it can be a movie, or dinner out—I don't care. But just you and me."

"If there's a case . . ." he begins.

"Then after. I'm good with that," she says. "I won't nag you about this, but I will remind you. Deal?"

"Have to think about it," he says, hoping to forestall her.

"I won't forget," she says, and there's laughter in her voice. "Go ahead, think about it then. When we're back home we'll figure it out."

"Jesus," he groans, and now she does laugh. Then she leans in and presses a kiss to the hinge of his jaw, her hand stroking his chest.

"I want to help you make this happen, that's all," she says softly, and her words are like music, simple and beautiful. For answer he turns to face her, holds her close and kisses her, feels her yield to him in that silent graceful way he finds so bewildering, so humbling. And then he thinks of nothing at all except the heat of her body, the taste of her, sweet and salty, her soft gasp when he slides inside her, the way her eyes widen and she cries out as she fills with the pleasure he's given her, the sound of her hurried breathing slowing as they lie in each other's arms. They ease into sleep together, the soft darkness carrying them away on the rustle of leaves in a cool night wind.

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, please leave a review. It would really make my day. _**


	24. Chapter 24

**_Thank you to everyone who has added me and/or my stories to their Alerts and Favorites lists. I'm deeply honored and humbly grateful. -B)_**

_April 28__th_

Roz woke to find she was alone in the big bed. A stray beam of sunlight came in through a wonky slat in the french doors. She yawned and ran her hand over the sheets. They were cool, so Greg had been up for a while. He often had trouble sleeping the night through at home, but here he'd actually been doing well. He'd filled out a little bit, he looked rested, and his energy levels seemed to be better. It had been nearly a week since she'd woken up alone.

Quietly she slipped out of bed, put on her robe and went over to the doors. Halfway there she heard him outside on the terrace, realized he was on the phone and stopped. The temptation to listen in was strong but she refused to eavesdrop, so she went into the kitchen and started breakfast. She'd finally learned how to use the espresso machine—it was more complicated than her smaller one at home—and liked the steamed milk it made as well as the coffee. She turned the machine on, filled the reservoir and set about making a frittata. She used the rest of the chopped greens and some ricotta, remembering Poppi teaching her to put a little dried mint and oregano in the cheese. After the addition of the beaten eggs everything was poured into the skillet and popped into the oven. While the frittata baked she made toast from the last of the bread, because Greg liked it. She'd received a little container of local honey from Margherita the week before; dark and scented with thyme, it was the perfect accompaniment.

As she was setting out cups and plates Greg came into the kitchen. He was not a demonstrative man by nature, not one to offer a hug and a kiss, so when he came up behind her, wrapped her in his arms and nuzzled her hair, she was a bit surprised. She didn't say anything though, just put her hands over his and savored the solid strength of his lean body against hers, knowing for whatever reason, he needed reassurance. Anyway, it was a secret delight of hers, having him close; she didn't think she'd ever get tired of that simple feeling. After a few moments he let her go. "You insist on fattening me up," he said. "What are you devastating my taste buds with this time, oh Kitchen Temptress?"

They took their meal to the terrace, now awash in bright sunshine, and watched birds flit in and out of the pines at the end of the stone wall. Despite the fine day and peaceful surroundings, Roz sensed Greg was in considerable turmoil. She knew him well enough by now to recognize the signs: fidgeting with his fork, unable to eat more than a bite or two, his gaze not meeting hers as he looked down at his plate. However, she also knew better than to say anything. The direct approach was usually best with him, but it depended on the circumstances. When emotional upheavals were involved it was better to let him come to her, at least at first.

She was finishing her coffee when Greg said "I spoke with Wilson." He fell silent. Roz said nothing, just waited. "We talked about the wedding."

"How did it go?" she asked quietly. Greg glanced over the valley. A light breeze stirred his hair, and the sunlight heightened the angularity of his features. Roz felt a little stutter in her heartbeat. _So handsome,_ she thought, knowing it was silly of her, but she still hugged to herself the knowledge that he was there with her by choice, and a rare choice at that.

"He offered us his congratulations. I think he really didn't believe I'd go through with it." Greg's mouth twisted in a sardonic smile that still held a slight hint of something like affection. "At least not without him."

Roz didn't know what to say; she'd only met the man once, and she suspected there hadn't been a favorable impression on his side of things either. Greg turned his head to her, but his gaze skittered away. She caught a flash of something like shame or guilt in the vivid depths. "Oh well. Nothing to be done." He sounded cheerful, but she knew that tone. "If we're going out to find the old Roman road Paolo told us about, we should leave soon."

She collected the dishes and put them in the sink; then she went into the bedroom, took her cell off the charger, checked the bars—two and a half this morning-and called Sarah. It would be the small hours in the Keys, but Roz didn't think Sarah would mind. _Here's hoping I don't catch Gene and her dancing in the sheets, _she thought.

The phone was answered on the second ring. "Hello?" Sarah sounded awake and alert and there was music playing in the background.

"Hey," Roz said, smiling. "How's paradise?"

"Sis!" Sarah said, obviously pleased. "It's wonderful. How are you? How's Greg? How's Italy?"

"I'm fine and Italy's fantastic, but I think your boy needs to talk with you," Roz said. "Would you-?"

"Of course," Sarah said without hesitation. Roz took the phone to the terrace. When she came out Greg glanced at her. She handed him the phone.

"Sarah," she said, and took the tray into the house.

It was some time before he came in. Roz was sitting at the table writing out a list of replacements for the _contessa's_ pantry, and a few items to tide them over until their departure in a few days. Greg tossed her phone atop the list and sat down across from her at the table. She looked up, anxious but knowing she'd have to face him. He stared at her, his blue eyes hard and bright.

"Why'd you make the call?" His tone was challenging.

"You needed someone to talk to," Roz said, trying not to sound defensive. "I don't know enough about the situation, but Sarah does." She put down her pen. "If I did the wrong thing, I apologize."

He kept staring at her. Then he turned and limped out of the room. "If we're going we'd better leave now!" he said loudly.

She drove them down the road in silence. At the first turn Greg said "You don't have to handle me."

Roz sent him a wry look. "I wasn't."

"The _hell_ you weren't."

"You got a call from your good friend, it upset you. I wasn't able to help, so I got someone you trust who could. Now you're pissed because you wanted to brood."

"I do NOT brood," Greg snapped. "I ponder."

"Yes you do too brood sometimes, but it's okay," Roz said. "Everything I did was logical, so I don't understand why you're mad at me. Either you do what the situation calls for or you walk away. I don't walk away." When Greg said nothing she glanced at him. He was staring out the window, his expression unreadable.

"I'm more than old enough to make my own decisions," he said finally, and turned his head to glare at her. "I can decide for myself if I want to talk to someone."

"I agree," Roz said. "You tried to talk to me about it but I'm not the right person in this case, so I got you someone who would understand." She paused, hoping it wasn't a mistake to continue. "You were all set to stuff whatever happened deep down inside and try to ignore it."

"If so it's my choice, not yours. Just because I have a ring on my finger doesn't mean you get to lead me around by it."

She drew in a little breath, determined not to show him how much that hurt. "Like I said, I called someone because I knew she could help where I couldn't. Sue me."

This time the silence lasted all the way to their destination. Roz pulled the car to the side of the road, set the brake and turned off the engine. Greg opened the door and got out, grabbed his cane and limped off into the woods. Roz watched him, then emerged from the car with a sigh.

The Roman road was about a quarter of a mile in on relatively even ground. Roz didn't attempt to keep up with Greg, just followed until he suddenly disappeared from view. Fear gripped her. What if he'd fallen? She hurried to find him, her heart in her throat.

She found him sitting on the ground peering into the underbrush. Her worry was quickly assuaged when it was clear he wasn't in physical distress. She moved closer and sat down next to him. Underneath her legs she could feel a hard surface. Roz brushed away some of the new growth to reveal stones fitted together. "This goes all the way up into the mountain. I bet the road bed is twelve feet deep. It looks like it was made last year." She trailed her fingers over the rough paving.

"Because nothing else has happened in the last half hour. We can pretend everything's fine," Greg said, his tone nasty. Roz lifted her gaze to his. Now she was annoyed.

"What is your problem exactly?" she said.

"If I want to talk to my shrink I'll call her myself!"

"Ah." The light bulb went on over her head. She looked him in the eye. "I wasn't calling your analyst."

Greg opened his mouth, closed it again. "What?" he asked after a moment.

"I won't ever come between you and Sarah in your professional relationship," Roz said. "So I called your foster mom instead."

He blinked. Roz had a sudden mental picture of a six-year-old Gregory House, all buzz-cut gilded brown hair, big blue eyes full of confusion, anger and defiance, arms folded and bottom lip poked out a mile. She felt a moment of sympathy for his mother; at that age he would have been a handful. _Not much has changed,_ she thought. Humor welled up inside but she kept a straight face, and waited for him to get what she was trying to tell him.

"That makes no sense," he said after a few moments tense silence.

"It makes perfect sense," Roz said in a reasonable tone.

"She's my analyst."

"She's also your friend. Are you seriously telling me the people in your life can only be one thing to you?"

"Yeah," Greg said. "Mostly they're idiots." He shot her a baleful glare.

"I'm not an idiot," Roz said.

"Didn't say you were, but if the shoe fits—"

"Greg." She tried to sound stern and couldn't quite manage it. He leaned in to study her.

"You're laughing," he said in accusation.

"No I'm not."

He made a dismissive gesture. "Not on the outside, but your eyes are green."

Roz tilted her head. "And you say _I _make no sense."

"When you're feeling strong emotion your eyes look just like a cat's." Both the glare and the pout returned. "You're mocking me."

"I'm amused by how stubborn you are," Roz said. "I love you, but you're the most obstinate man I've ever dealt with besides Poppi."

"Back atcha," Greg snapped.

"I'm an obstinate man? I take back anything I've ever said about your powers of observation, they suck."

Greg looked away, but not before she saw his lips twitch. Roz gave him another minute or so, then she got to her feet with a sigh.

"Fine. I guess we're done here," she said, and turned to go back to the car. Greg grabbed her hand and pulled her down. Roz gave a startled squeak as she was caught in long, strong arms and kissed hard. By the time the kiss ended she was clinging to him, breathless and delighted.

"_Ragazzaccio_," he said. His eyes glittered with amusement and fading anger. "This is what I get for marrying a rational woman."

Roz put a hand to his cheek. "I love you," she said.

"Aw hell, emotional blackmail. That's not fair," he grouched, but she watched those blue eyes darken with a reciprocal emotion she knew he would rarely be able or willing to put into words. It didn't matter; she preferred action to speech anyway.

They made love in the warm sunshine, with birdsong all around them. Roz enjoyed the groan of pleasure she teased from Greg, her hands holding him as he came, shuddering.

"You didn't get anything out of that," he said a short time later, as they lay together. She stroked his chest.

"I got plenty," she said, smiling. He moved a damp strand of hair from her forehead. His gaze was searching.

"Why did you call Sarah?" he asked quietly.

"Because you needed her," she said.

"You're . . ." He hesitated. "You're really okay with that? That sometimes . . . I'll go to her about things and not you?"

"Yes, I am," Roz said. "I can't be everything for you. I can only be me and hope it's enough."

"Terrifying thought. You're more than enough for three husbands. I should rent you out," Greg said, and kissed her temple.

They came home at the end of the day, tired but far more relaxed and comfortable with each other than when they started out. The evening had turned chilly, so Greg built a fire in the main room while Roz made supper. After they'd eaten they lay spooned together on the couch, enjoying the warmth of the blaze and each other too. Greg's big hand slid up and down her arm in an idle caress, something she always enjoyed.

"Won't have much time for this when we're back home," he said after a while. Roz kissed the line of his jaw, rested her forehead there for a moment.

"We're still here," she reminded him. He looked down at her, a smile tugging at his lips.

"So we are," he said, and bent to kiss her.

It grew quiet after that, so much so she thought he'd fallen asleep when he said, "Wilson wanted to be part of the wedding but he couldn't because he's . . . he's not ready to deal with the real world. I know what that's like."

Roz resisted the urge to comfort him; he wouldn't welcome it. She just listened.

"He's been my best friend for a long time. We put up with a lot from each other, but he endured far more provocation and shitty behavior than I did. Since the infarction . . ." He sighed softly, a resigned sound that broke Roz's heart. "Let's just say I haven't made things easy for anyone, including myself."

"So things are different between you and Wilson," she said. He nodded.

"They'll never be the same. I don't know if that's good or bad or just some sea of vast indifference."

Now she took his hand in hers, brought his palm to her lips and kissed it. He broke free gently and stroked her cheek.

"You did the right thing," he said after a time. "Calling Sarah." Roz felt something deep inside loosen a little. "That doesn't mean I like it." A chuckle ghosted over cheek as he leaned in to kiss her. "But I doubt that matters."

"Nope." When he cupped her breast she closed her eyes and relaxed into him, feeling his shift to accommodate her, his quiet exhalation, his kiss at her temple, the steady thump of his pulse. "Love you, _amante_," she said. His fingers stroked her and she smiled a little, content to be within the circle of his arm, held close to his heart.

_you're in my blood like holy wine_

_you taste so bitter and so sweet, oh_

_I could drink a case of you, darlin'_

_and I'd be on my feet_

'_A Case of You', Joni Mitchell_

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, please leave a review. It would really make my day. _**


	25. Chapter 25

**_(WARNING: pure unadulterated fluff ahead. You've been told, so don't come crying to me. A short chapter but a lot of fun to write and here's hoping, to read too. -B)_**

_April 29__th_

"Another peach margarita for the lady, and I'll have a draft beer." Gene glanced at Sarah, brows raised as she stole a pretzel from the bowl beside him. "Okay?"

"Cool. These things are making me thirsty," she said, and tipped her black Stetson back to give him a dazzling smile. "Play me another song on the jukebox, soldier?"

"Whatcha wanna hear, little girl?"

"Your choice," Sarah leaned in and kissed him, her lips soft against his. "Gimme one of your best."

Gene put his hand on her thigh. "Right here in the bar?"

Sarah laughed. In the neon light he could still see her curls had lightened, the auburn brightened with copper and blonde streaks. They complemented the gilding of her light tan, carefully acquired through the use of morning and afternoon sunlight hours and a goodly amount of sunblock. Usually she preferred long sleeved shirts to hide the scars on her back and arm, but since they'd arrived in Key West she'd not been shy about wearing tank tops and camisoles. He was glad to see the change in her; he didn't even see her scars anymore unless someone commented on them, but he knew she was often self-conscious about how they set up attitudes before people got to know her.

But none of that mattered right now. In her black camisole and jeans she looked good enough to eat. With two margaritas in her and more on the way, there was a fair chance he'd get to do just that later on with her enthusiastic cooperation. Even better, she looked happy and carefree for the first time in months, and he wanted her to keep that look for as long as he could.

Gene stood and went to the jukebox, fed in a buck and selected Anson Funderburgh and the Rockets. He knew a good tune would get her out on the floor, and sure enough, she was swinging a boogie-woogie with him not thirty seconds later. He sent her away over the floor and laughed when she spun in a perfect circle and came back to him, her face shining with delight.

They drank and danced for another couple of hours, getting pleasantly buzzed but still functional, to walk back to their room at Big Ruby's. It was a warm night, with stars twinkling overhead and the smell of salt water in the soft breeze.

"Oh, I could really get used to this," Sarah said. "We should come here for a couple of weeks every winter."

"I think that could be arranged." Gene laughed when Sarah hugged him. He stopped, turned her toward him, took off her hat and kissed her long and slow, enjoying the feel of her slender arms stealing around his waist, bringing him close. Someone driving by honked a car horn and yelled encouragement. Gene waved Sarah's hat in salute and made her laugh. She tasted of sweet fruit and lime with a little hint of salt, and he couldn't get enough of her.

"C'mon, we'll get arrested for indecent exposure if we stay out here much longer," Sarah said when the kiss ended. She slid her hands over the curve of his ass to cop a feel. Gene smiled down at her.

"I ain't the one holdin' us up," he teased. Sarah raised her brows and gave him a gentle pinch.

"I don't see you going anywhere," she said, and stood on her tiptoes to kiss him.

"This isn't helping," he said when he could speak. Sarah laughed. She linked her arm in his and settled in at his side.

"Lead on," she gestured with the Stetson. Gene leaned in to steal another kiss, then started forward. They strolled the walk, moving together, and he savored every moment of her at his side, sparkling like the fizz in a bottle of champagne.

When they reached their room they made good use of the big comfortable bed, taking their time with each other, a slow, tender exploration that brought them the pleasure they both knew so well. But it was infused with echoes of the music they'd danced to earlier in the evening, so there was laughter along with a fair amount of slap and tickle, the two of them rolling in the soft cotton sheets, the springs squeaking.

"We'll wake up everyone in the place," Sarah said at some point. Gene pushed a little deeper and she gasped softly, clutching his shoulders. He waggled his brows and leered down at her.

"You make that sound like a bad thing."

"Pirate," she accused, and wrapped her legs around him. "Have your wicked ol' way with me, Jolly Roger."

"Arrrr," he growled at her ear, and did just that as she giggled and lifted her hips to allow him better access. When they finally fell asleep it was with little kisses and nips and whispers, something they hadn't done since the early days of their marriage.

[H] [H] [H]

Sarah woke first for once, and had the chance to watch her husband sleeping in the first light of morning. Against the white sheets he was dark, his tanned skin and black hair giving him the look of a mercenary—the pirate she'd called him earlier that morning. But she also knew the tender heart of him, the gentleness he owned as thoroughly as his strength. He had his scars too, the kind no one saw except her, and he sometimes failed when he struggled to deal with his pain and hers too. Yet he never gave up trying, and he never shied away from the responsibility. Her heart swelled as she watched him, his face vulnerable and peaceful in sleep.

She didn't believe in fate or destiny, though her Celtic blood often urged the idea on her. Love was the result of a complex series of incidents, perceptions and emotional tides. There were a number of compatible people for each person in the world. Still, she was glad she and Gene had found each other. When he was with her she was herself, but moreso, and better; she knew he felt the same way about her. He was the best friend she'd ever had, and she looked forward to every day with him, good, bad or plain old ordinary.

A cascade of memories filled her mind's eye as she watched him: the two of them in the church alone, placing the rings on each other's fingers, reciting the vows; the pain in his eyes when she told him she couldn't have children, only to find it was pain for her loss even more than his; his pride in her acceptance at Mayfield; their first Christmas as a married couple, drinking champagne as they opened presents; riding horses together on a visit to Texas; the feel of his long, lean body in her arms as he wept over the decision to give up field work; the flash of his brilliant smile as he danced with her. She couldn't think of a life without him.

"I can feel you staring at me," Gene said in a morning-voice rumble that made her toes curl. Sarah rolled forward a little and kissed him.

"Just admiring my handsome husband," she said with complete honesty. One eye opened and regarded her with sleepy suspicion.

"Not too picky, are ya," he said. Sarah grinned.

"Oh, I don't know . . ." Sarah kissed the corner of his mouth. "I think I got a good deal, all things considered." She brushed a lock of hair from his forehead and gave a little squeak of surprise when he pinned her beneath him. This time the kiss was a scorcher. She felt him hard and ready to go pressed against her thigh, and opened to him without hesitation. They moved together, her hands sliding over his back, cupping his cheeks as he took both of them to the edge and toppled them over into pleasure, his groan as sweet as music to her.

"Let's get married," he said as they lay together afterwards in each other's arms. Sarah turned her head a little to look at him.

"Uh, _yeah_," she said dryly, and he laughed.

"I mean renew the vows. But not in a church. We've done that already. Let's do it in the bar."

Sarah blinked. "The bar?" She liked the idea. She liked it a lot. "So who's gonna marry us?"

"We'll find someone. First things first. Breakfast, then you need a dress." Gene grinned at her. "Sound like a plan?"

They had fresh mangoes, croissants and mimosas in bed, taking their time, watching the news and discussing the day's itinerary. As the morning grew older they took a shower together and enjoyed the soothing pulse of hot water. Sarah laughed when Gene got soap in his eyes; he exacted revenge by holding her against him while he brought her to the brink of orgasm with his fingers, chuckling as she squirmed and gasped and finally surrendered, her body shuddering as he gave her sweet little aftershocks, his lean body supporting her.

It was a leisurely shopping trip. They wandered the streets hand in hand, enjoying the bright day. Gene bought a vintage porkpie hat, a dark blue gauze shirt and black jeans; Sarah found a pale sage green print dress with a broomstick skirt. New flipflops for both of them completed their finery, and then they headed for the bar they'd frequented since arriving in Key West.

"You want me to marry you?" Ben scratched his head and tossed his cleaning rag toward the sink. "I ain't no preacher." He folded his arms and gave them a challenging stare.

Gene held up his hand and Sarah's, their rings glinting. "Already did the deed."

"What you need me for then?"

"We're renewin' our vows," Gene said. "We like your place so we hope you'll let us do it here." He smiled. "First round's on us."

Ben gave them a considering look. "You been here every night for the last week. I guess you's good enough customers." He gave them a sudden grin. A diamond winked from his left front tooth. "Show up at eight and don't be late."

They did just that, strolling through the door dressed in their new clothes to find the place packed with regulars and tourists alike and already jumping. There were multi-colored streamers everywhere, and red heart-shaped helium balloons. As they came up Ben ambled over, resplendent in a truly hideous Hawaiian shirt and shorts, a relatively clean bar towel thrown over his shoulder.

"You both ready?" he asked. Sarah glanced at Gene who gave her a mock-questioning look, his green eyes gleaming with amusement.

"Now or never," she said, and took his hand as she smiled. He nodded and turned back to Ben.

"Let's roll," he said in his best jarhead manner, and Sarah laughed.

"All right then. Ever'body shut up!" Ben yelled, and the noise level fell a few notches. "Now these two knuckleheads say they love each other and wanna stay hitched. I says it's okay by me. How the rest of ya feel about it?"

Cheers and applause went up around them. Sarah squeezed Gene's hand, and he returned the gesture. Ben nodded.

"Okay by me too," he said with a huge grin. "By the power nobody ain't never 'vested in me ever, I say you stay married to each other so you don't make two other people crazy." Above the laughter he shouted "First drink's on the happy couple, first dance is on me!"

They took the floor and quasi-Charlestoned to the Squirrel Nut Zippers amid a sea of well wishes and congratulations. Sarah watched Gene's face, warmed by the steady joy she saw there as they moved together. "I love you," she shouted, and his eyes brightened with happiness.

"I love you back," he yelled, and pulled her in for a kiss, to the enthusiastic approval of the crowd.

There was wedding cake—well, sort of; several enormous platters of swiss rolls, twinkies and devil dogs were produced, along with peanuts and pretzels. Sarah shared a cupcake with Gene, and bought another round of drinks for the attendees. When people tapped their mugs or glasses she and Gene kissed to universal acclaim. Occasionally they got up to dance, facing each other on the crowded floor, surrounded by bodies and music and pure, simple delight.

"I feel more married now than the first time," Sarah said later as they walked to their hotel. She had a helium heart balloon tied to her left wrist, holding Gene's hand in hers.

"Me too." He leaned in and kissed her, tasting of rum. "Let's renew our vows here every year."

"Oh, I like the sound of that." Sarah slipped an arm around Gene's waist and moved in closer. "Can we go to the beach one more time tomorrow before we leave?"

"You got it." Gene paused in front of the hotel door. "Been a pleasure spending all this time with you, ma'am," he said softly, and drew her in for a kiss. "Wanna come in and fool around?"

"I thought you'd never ask," Sarah said, smiling. "Just be gentle with me, mister."

"Got thirty-three flavors, guaranteed to satisfy," Gene said, and swept her up in his arms. "Jesus, Sare! Thank god we're on the ground floor."

"Oh, shut up!" Sarah laughed, and kissed him as he carried her down the hall, over the threshold, and kicked the door shut behind them.

'_I'm Your Professor,' Anson Funderburgh and the Rockets  
_

'_The Suits Are Picking Up the Bill,' Squirrel Nut Zippers_

_**Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, please leave a review, it would really make my day.**_

_**While you're at it, check out my good friend MissBates update on her excellent fic **_**When the Wind is Southerly: season 7. _It's well worth your time._**_** I also highly recommend Laniki's **_**The Hardest Part of Love, _the sequel to her wonderful fic _Now & Forever. _Finally, try out hilandmum's new fic _Big Girls Don't Cry, _the sequel to her great story _Some Enchanted Evening. _Plenty of fantastic fic out there to enjoy, have fun and please review! We authors love it when you let us know what you think of our labors of love! _**_**  
**_


	26. Chapter 26

_May 2__nd_

_10 p.m._

It's a quiet night at Lou's now, the bustle and noise of the early evening transmuted into peacefulness. Their little party of four is the only group left in the place. They've shared dinner and stories about their respective vacations; everyone looks well-rested and happy. The change in Sarah is most noticeable. She actually has something of a tan, her pale skin tinted with a bit of golden glow, her carroty curls highlighted with copper and blonde streaks; little gilt-edged seashells dangle from her earlobes, matching the necklace Roz gave her. When she'd seen Greg earlier she'd hugged both him and Roz, her delight obvious. It gave him a strange feeling deep inside, something he's never experienced. No one's ever really welcomed him home before. It's an odd sensation, a bit frightening in its intensity. He's still not quite sure how he feels about it.

"Time to get down to why we're here tonight," he says when the conversation falls silent finally. "I have a non-sexual proposition for the Doctors Goldman." He's shaking a little now, anxious about this whole venture. When Roz's hand comes to rest on his knee he welcomes the contact. Without further hesitation he plunges in. "I want you both to work with me at the clinic."

This is the make or break moment. He can hardly bring himself to watch their reactions, but he shouldn't have worried in the first place, just as his wife told him. Both Sarah and Gene are smiling.

"We thought you'd never ask," Gene says. Greg glances at Sarah. She nods and reaches out to take his hand in hers.

"We'd be honored," she says quietly.

"I don't know if this is gonna work," he warns as Lou comes over to join them, carrying a tray with a bottle of wine and some glasses, which he places on the table. Then he pulls over an extra chair and sits down next to Roz.

"You'll never know until you try," he says. "When I bought this place forty years ago they were making pizza with frozen dough and fake cheese. Now I've got customers bringing their grandkids here so they know what good Italian food tastes like."

Greg turns the bottle label toward him. "_Pio Cesare Barolo Ornato_ 2003," he reads. "From the Piedmont region. This is hundred dollar wine."

Lou nods. "If you're gonna start a new venture, you need a great sendoff," he says, and pulls the cork to let the wine breathe. One corner of his mouth quirks up in a smile as he glances at his granddaughter, who smiles back at him.

"Speaking of new ventures . . ." Sarah pick up her purse, rummages for a moment and removes two pieces of paper. "We thought you could use these." She places them in front of Greg, who makes no move to take them because he realizes they're checks, both for the same amount—two grand.

"What the _hell_ is this?" he demands, shocked.

"It's the rent you paid over the last few months," Sarah says. There's a gleam of mischief in her sea-green eyes. "A nice little nest egg for you to start with, but we felt it wasn't enough. So we decided to ask some people for matching funds. The second check is from Diane Wirth."

Without a word Lou gives Greg another check for the same amount. Gene pushes two more toward him as well; one is from him, another from Will Reynard. The check from Will has a handwritten note clipped to it that says simply '_I want in, call me for consults_.' Greg stares at the money. There's ten grand sitting there. When Roz puts her passbook on top of them, open to the last entry—around fifteen thousand dollars—it's too much, too overwhelming. He has to object.

"You're all putting a hell of a lot of money in something that could go belly up in a matter of days," he says.

"Knew you'd be thinking that," Sarah says. Now she takes a sheaf of papers from her purse, moves the checks to one side and puts the papers in front of him.

"What the fuck?" Greg snaps. His heart is hammering. "You went to Big Vinnie and took out a loan too?"

"I went online and asked a hypothetical question," Sarah says. "I wanted to know if anyone would be interested in a clinic run by Gregory House."

Greg looks down at the thick stack of printouts. Slowly he scans the first page. It's a fax from Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, the official letterhead sitting above a brief note: _'We would be honored to extend open-door privileges to and consult with Doctor Gregory House and his staff.'_ Cuddy's signed it along with the head of every department in the hospital, including Wilson's stand-in for Oncology and Foreman for Diagnostics. Greg wonders briefly how much intimidation it took to get them to sign. He sets the page aside and skims the rest. There are similar documents from all over the eastern seaboard and points west as well as abroad, along with letters from people requesting his help, resumes from would-be fellows, invitations for lectures and conference key-note speaker gigs . . . everything he used to receive on a regular basis during his tenure at PPTH, only doubled. He looks at this largesse, unable to believe it's real.

"If you build it they will come," Gene intones, and that makes everyone laugh, including Greg.

"Okay," he says, when the room is quiet again. He touches the stack with his finger, glances at the pile of money, takes a deep breath. "Okay. Let's do it."

They toast the start of the clinic with glasses of wine. The color is so deep it's almost black, and the taste is just as intense: raspberry, truffle and dried flowers, ripe fruit with hints of tobacco, chocolate, vanilla and pepper, the tannins quite obviously there but balanced enough to offset the softer flavor notes without drowning them out.

"I presume you'll provide food for the staff and patients," Greg says to Lou after they've all tapped glasses and had a long, appreciative sip of this magnificent quaff. He's joking, but Lou takes him seriously.

"You know, it could be done," he says, looking thoughtful. "I've wanted to bring in someone to take over for a while now, an apprentice. Let me see what I can do."

They sit around tossing ideas back and forth for another hour or so; when it's clear they're talked out they help Lou close up the restaurant and go their separate ways. Before Sarah departs she gives Greg a fierce hug. "So proud of you, son," she whispers, and that means more to him than everything else, even the money. He'd never tell her of course, but he tries not to wonder yet again where the hell he'd be by now if she hadn't decided he was worth her time and effort.

"Let's go by the clinic," Roz says when they climb into Barbarella. Greg looks at her.

"It's not a clinic yet," he says.

"Sure it is," she says, and flashes him a smile. "We christened it tonight with a great bottle of wine and a slush fund."

He chuckles and starts the engine. When they move down the street he turns out of town at the light, and heads for the Widmeyer place—_my place_, he corrects himself.

The building is dark; there's no electricity of course. Roz pulls an LED flashlight out of the glovebox.

"Where the hell did that come from?" Greg asks, intrigued.

"You married an electrician and you ask that?" Roz laughs, turns on the flashlight and takes his hand. "Come on, let's look things over."

They've both explored the building extensively during daylight hours, so even with the lights off they know their way around well enough. They end up in the main room, standing together.

"I can see how it's going to be," Roz says after a brief silence. "Once everything's renovated, I mean." She moves in close and slips an arm around his waist.

"And how is it going to be?" he asks, intrigued.

"Busy. A lot of puzzles to be solved, all coming through your doors," she says. Greg half-smiles. Anyone else would have said _So many people for you to help._ His wife knows him well.

"You just love me for my brain," he says. Roz laughs softly and pinches his butt.

"Among other things," she says slyly.

They take a tour of the place, glancing into rooms, not saying much. "This wiring was old when god was a baby," is Roz's sole comment. "Everything has to be replaced and upgraded. Lucky for you you've got an electrician working for cost of materials."

_There's a hell of a lot of work to do. That's been obvious from the start, _he thinks.

"Yeah, there is," Roz says. She seems to know exactly what's going through his mind at times, a disconcerting trait of hers Greg's not sure he'll ever get used to; only Wilson had pulled it off on rare occasions in the past. "We'll get it done, _amante_. You'll see."

_May 3__rd_

_3:35 a.m. _

It was deep in the small hours of the morning when Roz woke, alerted by some small noise or movement. She lifted her head to find Greg sitting on the edge of the bed, rubbing his thigh. He was shivering; he'd probably pushed off the sheets and comforter sometime before he woke up. He reached out to take a bottle from the nightstand—anti-anxiety meds, she'd seen him use them before once. He was shaking so hard he could barely get the cap off, but he managed to dry-swallow two tabs. He ran a hand over his face and exhaled, shoulders slumped.

She knew better than to ask stupid questions, offer platitudes or sappy reassurances during an anxiety attack. She just slipped her arms around him and drew him to her spoon-fashion when he lay down again. He didn't object or push her away; she could feel him struggling to breathe normally. So this was a bad one. It was rare, but every now and then he would struggle or cry out in his sleep and she had to leave him alone until he was completely awake and aware of his surroundings.

"I can't do this," he said at last. "It won't work."

Roz put her hands on his chest and stroked him slow and gentle. "Tell me," she said after a few moments.

"I'm a fuckup," he said. His voice was low and rough. "I should never have asked anyone to work with me. This whole thing is doomed from the start because I'm the one doing it." He swallowed and Roz knew he was trying hard not to bolt.

"Why?" Roz pressed a soft kiss to the nape of his neck. "Tell me."

"Because I always screw things up." He relaxed a little when she brushed her lips over his skin, a lingering caress. She could feel his pulse beginning to settle, still fast but a bit steadier now. "What if I do this and it fails?"

"Then you start again," Roz said. "But I don't think it's going to fail, Greg. You're not alone. You have people standing with you, willing to help." She trailed her fingers in a circle above his heart, felt him heave a shuddering sort of sigh. "I'm one of them. Now close your eyes and go back to sleep. Things will look better in the morning."

"You and those damn rose-colored glasses," he muttered, but she heard the faint smile in his voice. She leaned into and across him to kiss the corner of his mouth, sweet and lingering. He turned his head and made it a proper kiss, opening to her so their tongues could touch.

"Love you," she said against his lips when the kiss ended, and slipped in one last little buss before she snuggled in behind him, her arms holding him close.

"How am I supposed to sleep now with you all squinched up against me like that?" he said after a brief silence. "Your nipples are drilling holes in my back. Put another blanket on."

Roz struggled not to laugh. "There is another way to get warm," she said, and slid her hand over his hip. He caught it before she reached her destination.

"Horndog," he accused, laughter trembling in the epithet. Roz propped up on one elbow and stared down at him, though he refused to look at her.

"Hey, _I'm_ the one who has to get up in a couple of hours and go to work," she said. "Not to mention listen to everyone teasing the hell out of me for the circles under my eyes."

"Aw, poor widdle Rosie," Greg mocked. "Better call the waaaaambulance—_hey!_" He squirmed away from her as she lightly tickled his ribs, his most vulnerable spot.

They tussled and laughed and ended up making love, just as she'd hoped. He took her fast and hard, nipping her neck and driving up into her so that she clutched his back and wrapped one leg around him, pushing him deeper. When they came it was noisy and messy and absolutely satisfying, both of them spent and sodden with afterglow.

"Think you're so smart," Greg said when he could speak. Roz smirked at him.

"I know I am, but what are you?" she said, and squealed when he pinned her arms to take a long, tender kiss.

"Smart enough to shack up with someone who knows how to handle a panic attack," he said, and let go long enough to cup her buttcheek. When he settled her in the same position they'd started out in, her behind him spoon-style, she brought the covers up over them.

"You just wait and see. I'm right," she said, kissed his bald spot, and turned out the light.

**_This is the end of Homecoming, but NOT the end of the extended Treatment series. The first chapter of the next story, Defying Gravity, will be posted May 30th. I'm taking a little break because I've been writing this epic novel of a fic for two years now without much of a break-from the night the S5 season finale, Both Sides Now, aired, to today-and I need to fill up my writing well, which is pretty empty at the moment. So never fear, there's more story to tell.  
_**

**_Many thanks for reading. I have the best loyal readers on FF! Yez are bee-yoo-tee-ful, as they say in some parts of Philadelphia. :) If you are so inclined, please leave a review. It would really make my day.  
_**


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